


Saving Icarus

by Rroselavy



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin Sharpe wants a Pulitzer, his partner, Harlan Chase, is looking for adventure. When a mysterious, dangerous informant passes along classified information, the investigative reporters are plunged into a world of intrigue that ripples right up through the highest offices in the land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saving Icarus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [7veilsphaedra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7veilsphaedra/gifts).



> With apologies to Richard Condon ...

When the man finished talking and Justin was done writing, he thought his head was going to explode. He felt a fine bead of sweat--which had nothing to do with heat or humidity because he could see his breath in the cool late afternoon air--trace a line down the side of his face. He put his pencil down across the lined pages of his reporter's notebook.

"Did you get all that?"

Justin gave him a thorough once-over and nodded. The guy was a real looker; rough-cut blond hair framed a face that would have been nothing short of stunning if he were to smile. Violet eyes peered back at him from under a mass of bangs that were a week too long, but they added enough of a rugged quality to fine features that otherwise could have been considered too feminine. With a face like that, he must have had it rough growing up, Justin mused.

He didn't look insane, either; he looked perfectly normal--if a little uptight--dressed in black slacks, a black turtleneck and a black leather blazer that creaked whenever he moved. But the tale he'd just related was either the product of a completely unhinged mind, or something almost too frightening to consider. Justin was a hard-nosed reporter--in the course of his career he'd gone toe-to-toe with the movers and shakers at the very top of the food chain, inside the law and out--but what this guy had told him was the stuff of nightmares. Or bestsellers. And if it were true, and it was his story that blew the intrigue wide open--and saved a life--there'd be at least a Pulitzer in it for him. But before Justin could even think about that, he had to make sure he'd crossed all his _t_'s and dotted all his _i_'s.

"Yeah, this is all well and good," he glanced down at the notes he'd scribbled, "but I need your name."

"My name?"

"Yeah, to corroborate your story. If I bring this in to my editor as it is now, he'd pat me on the head and send me out to cover planning board meetings." It was a white lie, but Justin had on his best poker face.

"What do you take me for, a moron? What are you going to do when they lean on you for it?" The blond leaned closer, nearly across the table. "Because they will lean on you, if you have the guts to print the story."

"Freedom of the press, man. It's my right, guaranteed by this little document you may have heard of--the Constitution." Justin fired back.

Within a split second the blond was towering over him, two dead violet eyes behind the barrel of a gun no more than three inches from his forehead. The ominous click of the safety being released had Justin nearly shitting himself. He swallowed hard, trying to force down the bile that had risen in his throat. It wasn't as if he'd never been in harm's way before, it was the speed at which this situation had deteriorated that frightened him. A few tense seconds passed by, and Justin wondered where any witnesses might be--they were in a public park for chrissakes--freaking Dupont Circle! But a hush had befallen the park, very similar to the quiet before a snowfall. Even the fountain seemed muted. Somewhere in the distance a horn sounded. Justin imagined it was a taxi; he wondered absently if it would be the last sound he heard, beside the report of the gun.

The other man laughed humorlessly and lowered his weapon. Justin's heart started beating again.

"You are deluded. No one in the Capital believes the Constitution is worth the paper it was printed on." Justin was relieved when the blond concealed his weapon and sat back down.

"You're one cynical bastard, you know that?" His voice did not belie the abject fear he'd just spiraled down from.

His informant snorted. "You wouldn't be, with what I just told you?"

"If it were true." Even Justin couldn't believe the balls it took to say that. But having a gun pointed at him had been a real mood-killer.

The blond's eyes narrowed dangerously, and the fine hairs on the back of Justin's neck stood on end. He was looking into the eyes of a killer, he realized, hoping that factoid wasn't too late in coming. He made a promise himself he'd do something nice if he lived through this encounter. If not, he hoped his partner would avenge his death.

"Which is why I need some tangible evidence," he added quietly. "Like I said. I can take my notes to my editor and he's gonna laugh me right out of his office." He still had some capital to spend; the man needed him, had reached out to him to spill his story. "Can I meet the kid?"

"No."

"I won't say a word to him. I just need to confirm..." Justin's words died in his throat. Confirm what? The guy could produce anyone and say he was a programmed killer.

"Therein lies the rub." A sharp scrape disrupted the hush that had fallen over the park, and a match head flared as the blond lit a smoke. The pungent scent of sulfur filled Justin's nostrils. "I knew he'd be more trouble than he's worth," he said flatly. He reached a gloved hand in his pocket, and Justin dove under the concrete table.

"If I was going to kill you, you'd be dead already."

"Small comfort, that," Justin replied as he climbed back onto the bench.

Something clattered on the table in front of him. A jump drive.

"What the hell is this?" He stared at it, half expecting the thing to self-destruct.

"What does it look like, dumbass? There's your evidence."

Justin's mouth gaped open like a fish gasping for breath. "What the fuck just happened?" he stammered when he trusted himself to speak. The blond stared at him impassively. "You know..." Justin pointed a finger to his temple.

"Oh. That was because you annoy me."

"You crazy sonofabitch!" he ground out as the blond turned his back and walked away briskly, choosing a path that cut through the park. "Wait! What if I need to talk to you!?!"

The blond spun on his heel. "I know where to find you. I'll be in touch."

Somehow Justin didn't find that very comforting. He watched the tall, thin figure recede into the darkness, lit a smoke to calm his nerves, then pocketed the drive.

***

Gavin Stewart hadn't set out to be a decorated war hero, he'd set out to be killed. He'd been the perfect soldier--a mix of grit, determination and guts that had moved him through the ranks when braver men had come up short. Only, he wasn't brave; he just never gave a shit about his safety, his endgame being his own death. But he'd never extended his motivations to the misguided, patriotic morons who fought by his side, thereby ensuring their relative safety. His skills caught the attention of some military bigwigs, and he was trained for 'special operations.' There wasn't a mission that was too daring or too futile for him, and his blatant acts of courage had left him with a box of medals, and enough stars and stripes on his shoulder to collect a hefty paycheck.

There weren't conventional wars anymore, just insurgencies--vast swaths of nameless, faceless fodder following arcane beliefs and insane leaders, promised their own slice of heaven to die for a cause no one with half a brain truly believed in--sort of like the meek inheriting the earth, but at least that fable didn't give birth to an endless supply of suicide bombers. And so he had witnessed the rise and fall of puppet dictatorships in the Latin American jungles, had helped behind the scenes in covert missions to unseat brutal warlords in sub-Saharan Africa, and had chased the Taliban through Afghanistan to the Pakistani border. Along the way, he discovered a natural facility for language, which further made him an integral part of many covert missions. At the end of his journey, he unearthed the last shred of his humanity. That had been buried in the dust of the World Trade Center, along with his father's remains

His revelation occurred in a cave in the Bamiyan valley, as he'd helped a young widow deliver her first child. She'd been exhausted by a long labor with no appropriate medicines, not even a comfortable bed--just a straw pallet on which she'd writhed for hours--but as her infant's first cries sounded, she'd been reduced to tears, clinging tenaciously to Gavin's hand, her other arm cradling her new-born, her voice--blown out by her labor screams--just a rasp, repeating "Tashakkur, Allahu akbar!" over and over again.

She'd insisted on naming the boy Gavin, after their savior, even though he'd protested vehemently that he'd only done what any decent person would have in the same situation.

"No, I know what decent people are capable of," she'd admonished him in Farsi, a bitterness in her voice that belied her young age. "_Decent people_ rape young brides and then murder their grooms. You--you are special. You could have left me to die, but you stayed behind alone, to help a stranger. It would have been far easier for you to put a bullet in my head than play mid-wife."

He looked in awe at her--her sky blue _chadra_ hiked to her hips revealing blood-streaked thighs--already swaddling the infant at her breast. With all the destruction he'd seen in his life, he'd never understood the primal need of some people to procreate in even the most hopeless situations. But that night changed all that forever. The realization that this woman could _love_ this child, despite the hateful circumstances of his conception, shook Gavin to the core.

The sands shifted under his feet in that cold, dank cave, spurred by that young woman's unconditional love and, for the first time since his father's death, Gavin sensed that there could be a future for him--a future that Konrad Stewart would have been proud of for his son.

Gavin never signed up for another tour of duty after that. Instead, he enrolled in medical school courtesy of Uncle Sam, with the intention of becoming a psychiatrist. His new mission in life: to find out what made people tick.

He'd been working his way through his clinical rotations at the VA hospital, seeing to hundreds of cases of brain-injured vets, balanced out with a caseload of servicemen and women--outpatients suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, depression and anxiety-- when he'd been given Gideon Smith's file. The case was immediately intriguing--a Marine who'd developed a violent form of schizophrenia. When Gavin met Gideon, the young man was in a catatonic state, more than likely brought on by the large doses of haloperidol he was being force-fed. There was nothing he could do for his patient in that condition, so Gavin Stewart, MD, began to titrate Corporal Gideon Smith down from his drug-induced stupor.

***

"Was he hot?"

"C'mon, Harlan, he was an informant."

"That still didn't stop you from checking him out, though."

"Well--"

"Did you think about what it would be like to fuck him while I watched you? Or maybe ordering him to suck me off?"

"It wasn't like that at all! He was pretty scary, actually. But he wasn't bad-looking," Justin added quickly. Harlan's provocative statements, even when they were said half-joking, always managed to get him hot and bothered.

"Oh, he was dangerous? Dangerous, how?" Concern laced Harlan's voice, and Justin regretted his admission. He didn't want to think of the gun that had been pointed at him from close range, nor the blond with his dead, violet eyes, sexy though he was. And most of all, he didn't want to think about the unreal story he'd been told.

"Ah, it was nothing." He pulled Harlan closer.

"Not 'nothing,'" Harlan sniffed. "You smell." He grimaced and pushed Justin away. "Go take a shower, and then you can tell me all about your scary encounter."

When Justin came out of the bathroom, dressed in a fresh pair of boxers and towel-drying his hair, Harlan was there to greet him.

"What's this?" he asked, holding the jump drive up between his thumb and index finger.

"For chrissakes! You went through my pockets?" He snatched the drive away.

"I usually do, before I do your laundry." Harlan folded his arms across his chest. "So?"

"It's evidence."

"Very high tech for a scary guy."

"I didn't say he was a Luddite."

"Aren't you curious?"

Justin deflated. Harlan was in full reporter mode, and nothing--not even sex--came between Harlan Chase and a story. Justin figured he might as well give it up now, rather than endure Harlan's version of Twenty Questions.

He followed Harlan through the apartment and to the dining room that doubled as their office, telling him about the meeting he'd had with the elusive blond, reciting from memory the vivid details as Harlan inserted the drive into a USB slot on his laptop. Justin leaned his chin on Harlan's shoulder as Harlan opened the PDFs that were contained within. Most of them consisted of pages of reports and the military histories of two anonymous patients that supported the man's unsettling story. Then they found a document of notes, a comparison of the two patients' stories, and a list of call numbers for classified government documents.

An hour later Harlan spoke, breaking the hush that had settled over them both. "This needs corroborating. I don't suppose you got a name?"

Justin barked out a nervous laugh. "Talk like that got the wrong end of a gun in my face." Harlan twisted in his chair and leveled wide eyes at Justin. "I said he was dangerous."

Harlan turned back to the screen and studied the pixels. "So this is what we have. Besides the suspiciously similar documentation, we have two soldiers who recount the same exact story--the killing of a comrade-in-arms."

"Who happens to be alive and well and will be duly sworn in to Congress on January 20th."

"Whose father is a four-star General."

"And don't forget, a member of the current Administration's Cabinet." Justin added helpfully.

"And this story, of an assassination plot which is pure deduction on your contact's part, at present." Harlan drummed his fingers on the desktop.

Justin walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the Potomac and the twinkling lights of Arlington beyond the river's bank. He was heartened by Harlan's addition of 'at present.' It confirmed that he thought there was something to the story, too. Then he thought about those two nameless servicemen and wondered what had happened to them, to make them share the same delusion.

"What do you make of it?"

Harlan shook his head uncertainly. "_He_ believes it's true. He believes their statements, even though from all indications Nathan Townsend never served with them. The records are quite clear on that."

"Yeah. But we both know records can be faked." Justin took a deep breath. "I don't think he's whacko."

"Even though he threatened you?"

He nodded his head. There was something about the blond's intensity--his belief--that was infectious. It wasn't just the compelling story, or the lure of the scoop.

"I trust your judgment." It was a simple statement, but it spoke volumes to Justin. It made him feel warm all over. Harlan glanced up; in the low light of the room, the laptop screen reflected eerily on the lenses of his eyeglasses. "Obviously your contact is military personnel."

Justin exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "He didn't look it. His hair wasn't Government Issue, that's for sure."

"A spook?"

"Not creepy enough."

"Drawing a gun on you isn't creepy?"

Justin shrugged.

"If he was CIA, don't you think he could _give_ us those documents?"

"He doesn't want anything traced back to him," Harlan countered. "How did you leave it?"

"He said he'd be in touch."

"Justin, if any of this is true and we make a request for documents, it could draw a lot of heat." Harlan padded over to him and slipped his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Justin's shoulder. "We have to go to Hayden with this, before we do anything."

"What's this _we_, _kemo sabe_?" he asked, his mouth cracking a smile. The truth was, he liked the _we_. It was far better than the competition that had marked their acquaintance when Harlan had first been hired on.

They'd gotten along like oil and water those first few months; then they'd been forced to work together on a triple homicide investigation. The story--a young teen's murder of both his step-father, mother and his step-father's mother--opened raw wounds that both men secretly harbored, causing their conversations to be laced with emotions neither of them dared to voice.

For Justin in particular, the story resonated as a parallel to his own youth. The boy had been the victim of chronic abuse at the hand of his stepfather--physical, emotional and sexual--for the better part of his life. Justin felt the kid's nihilism, his sense of hopelessness; understood and empathized with his decision to kill his tormenter and the two women who stood by and allowed it to happen. He was reminded of how lucky he'd been to have his half-brother Jake protecting him from his stepmother's murderous rages--at a tremendous cost to himself. Justin didn't think he'd ever feel fully absolved of that debt, even though neither he nor Jake had ever spoken of their childhood since the day Jake's mother died.

In Harlan, the boy became what he'd wished for his twin sister to have been--someone who turned the anger and shame of the abuse outward, rather than taking her own life.

The long nights drinking coffee and poring over gruesome evidence while the police slowly built their case, and the forced closeness had brought their pasts to the surface and spawned an unlikely friendship, one that ignited to something more on a snowy evening in December--freakish weather for the DC area--when Harlan had called Justin from the local ER, informing him that he'd been in a car accident and was being held for observation, and wouldn't be at work that evening to file their story.

Justin had finished their piece, submitted it and then had charmed his way past the nurse's station with a flask of scotch--their traditional closing drink--and into Harlan's hospital bed. There were no confessions of undying love, no pronouncements of fate, just the innate knowledge that it was right.

They hadn't slept apart since.

"You know, he swings."

"Say _what_!?!" Justin's jaw dropped. "You didn't." He turned to face his lover. The green of Harlan's eyes was a thin ring around his pupils, and his cheeks were flushed; he looked _ravishing_. Justin leered and canted his hips, telegraphing his interest, then slid his hand over Harlan's chest, his fingers playing over already taut nipples.

"Ask? Of course I didn't. I got a call a few days ago, from a certain someone at the club." Harlan's voice had a breathless quality to it, one that was full of promise.

It hadn't hurt Justin's burgeoning interest in his strait-laced adversary, either, that Jake, who worked at a fetish club, had filled him in on some of Harlan's _unusual_ proclivities. With abundant detail.

"But he's a possibility?" Harlan nuzzled against Justin's neck, his teeth nipping playfully at the sensitive skin.

"He's our boss!" Justin's other arm slid around Harlan's middle and under the waistband of his pajama bottoms. His fingers traced lightly over the contours of Harlan's back, following the knobs of his spine to the concavity of his lower back and then over the rise of his behind. Harlan sighed[;] his warm breath caressed Justin's skin.

"He's drop-dead gorgeous, _and_ he swings."

Justin had to accede that one point. Hayden Thornton was a knockout on any scale. He sighed.

"You aren't going to let this go, are you?" Despite himself, or perhaps simply because of Harlan's talented mouth, Justin felt his jeans growing uncomfortably tight across his groin.

"Does it bother you?" Harlan's tongue licked kittenishly at his collarbone.

Justin chuckled. "That my hot boyfriend likes to watch?" He threaded his fingers through Harlan's soft hair. "Just as long as I'm only performing for an audience of one." He had to admit the times Harlan had watched had been amazingly hot. And they never promised their prospective partners anything more than a great romp in the hay.

"I wouldn't force you." Harlan's hands came to rest on Justin's shoulders. He gave Justin a meaningful stare. "I wouldn't want to jeopardize _this_. You mean too much to me."

Justin leveled his gaze and he took Harlan's face in his hands. "I know." He sealed his understanding with a kiss.

***

He had eyes the most unusual shade of gold, Gavin decided. That day they were clear of the haloperidol haze, though the glazed look had been replaced by a keen wariness, staring out intensely from underneath a thatch of golden-brown hair.

The patient, Gideon Smith, sat at the table, hands folded in his lap, rocking back and forth in his seat. His eyes flitted from the security door, to the large clock on the wall, to the imitation oak-grained tabletop.

Gavin sat in the chair opposite. Behind him was a one-way mirror; the session was being captured by a digital video camera. He laid the thick file containing his patient's records on the table in front of him, acutely aware that his every move was being watched.

"Do you know who you are?"

"Corporal Gideon Smith, Sir. US Marines, Third Battalion, Ninth Regiment, Sir!"

"Do you know who I am?"

"My savior, Sir!" The statement brought Gavin up short, and he stared at the kid for a full minute before asking his next question.

"Care to elaborate on that statement?"

"You stopped making them give me those drugs." Gideon flashed a nervous smile at him.

"It remains to be seen whether that was a prudent decision," Gavin returned coolly.

"You're Doctor Gavin Stewart, _Sir_," Gideon read off his name tag, then lunged across the table and grabbed Gavin's forearm.

Gavin silently berated himself an instant later for letting his guard down, when he felt strong fingers dig through his uniform jacket and into his flesh.

"You can help me, right? I'm not crazy!" He let go and sat back down.

Gavin smirked. Crazy people always said they weren't crazy.

"Do you know what day it is?"

"No, Sir. They won't let me have TV or a newspaper or even a magazine. But from the window in the common room, it looks cold out." Gideon's voice rang out strong in a clipped sing-song.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No, Sir."

"You don't need to call me 'sir.'" Gavin snapped. The thought crossed his mind that the kid was malingering, but he had a stellar record in the Marines, so that didn't make much sense. "Do you know where you are?"

"Inpatient psychiatry ward, ninth floor, Washington DC VA Medical Center, Sss--"

"I repeat, do you know why you're here?"

Gideon started to say something, then his eyes darted around the room. "They think I'm crazy," he said quietly.

"And you beg to differ--"

"I know what I did! I should be in prison, not the loony bin!" he said earnestly.

"Why don't you tell me what you did?"

"You don't believe me, either," Gideon replied dejectedly. His whole body slumped in the chair, losing the natural ramrod posture that could only be instilled by endless weeks of basic training.

Gavin took a measured breath. "I'm not convinced you have schizophrenia, delusions aside." He arched a brow. "Who's the President of the United States?"

"Currently or President-Elect?" Gideon countered.

Gavin drew his lips into a thin line. His patient's profile was vexing; it certainly didn't fit in with the diagnosis, but neither did it resemble any kind of a personality disorder. Things just weren't adding up. For one thing, Gideon Smith was completely lucid. Gavin changed tack, wondering what a dose of reality would do to him.

"Nathan Townsend is going to be sworn into the United States Congress on January 20th, along with President-Elect Kassandra Bouchonville."

"That can't be--"

"You've never met Nathan Townsend."

"I--I did!" Gideon stammered. "We were friends! Best buds! That can't be him! I KNOW WHAT I DID!" He stood up abruptly and the chair fell back, slamming against the wall behind him.

A knock sounded at the door, and an orderly peered into the double-paned, chicken-wire reinforced glass. Gavin waved him away.

"Look, you little shit, you'd better calm down, or your drug holiday is going to end just as quickly as it began," he hissed, glaring at the kid.

Gideon stood there, his eyes huge and his entire body shaking.

"Pick up the chair and sit down," Gavin ordered in a clipped voice.

While he did so, Gavin looked through the notes in the file--notes that he'd memorized--looking to see if he'd missed anything.

"Please don't let them tie me up. I'll be good."

Gavin glanced up, and for the first time, he saw raw fear in those strangely colored eyes.

"No more outbursts?"

Gideon nodded. "I'm not crazy," he added. "I know what I did."

Gavin shook his head and clenched his jaw. "You know your claims fly in the face of the evidence."

"I know, but--"

"Everything after 'but' is bullshit."

"Records can be faked. Imposters can be found."

"What are you, living some B-rate spy movie?"

"I wouldn't put it past his old man. He's fucking creepy!"

A small smile threatened at the corner of Gavin's mouth. That was an understatement if he'd ever heard one, and not exactly privileged information. There wasn't a person in military that didn't know of someone who'd been fucked over by the bastard on his way up the ladder.

"You've met General Townsend?" Gavin asked. Gideon snorted and folded his arms over his chest. "I'll take that as a non-answer."

"Yes, I met him." Gideon rolled his eyes. "I met him in Frankfurt when Nathan, Campbell and me were on leave. The bastard hated me on sight."

Gavin jotted down some notes. He knew something was amiss, and he was less inclined to believe it was Gideon Smith's sanity, but that didn't explain the obvious-on-the-face-of-it fallacy of his claim. Still, against his better judgment, Gavin believed him.

"What're you writing?"

Gavin sat back in his chair and gazed at Gideon appraisingly. His immediate impression was that this was the safest place for him.

"Who's 'Campbell'?"

"Campbell Stevens. You mean you haven't talked to him? He'll back me up." Gavin wrote down the name.

"Are ya gonna to let me go?"

"No, not based on what you've told me. Besides, you think you belong in prison." He slipped his hand in his pocket and closed his fingers around an infrared remote. The next thing he was going to say was going to be off the record; he didn't need the evidence. He leaned his elbows on the desk. Gavin didn't know what possessed him to say what he said next.

"But if you follow my instructions to the letter, maybe we'll get you out of here sooner, rather than later."

***

Hayden Thornton leaned back in his office chair and gazed across the desk at Justin Sharpe and Harlan Chase. They were very likely two of the best reporters in the business and, as a team, they were incomparable; the _Post_ was the envy of every other news organization in DC because of their acquisition. Harlan Chase had already won a Pulitzer for his post-Katrina reporting in New Orleans--he filed story after story from the ravaged city, a lone American voice that challenged the BBC's nonpareil coverage. Justin Sharpe had been cheated out of his chances on a couple of occasions, most likely because of his non-conformist bent--and his legendary carousing, though from all reports that had tapered off. Hayden was well aware of the gossip linking Justin to Harlan, and while office romances were frowned upon, Hayden couldn't care less about their arrangement, as long as they both kept turning in excellent work.

Hayden favored crisp white shirts, whose sleeves he rolled up in the time-honored tradition of managing editor. His office was piled with newspapers and magazines, the walls decorated with honors and achievements despite his being one of the youngest managing editors to occupy the position in the _Post_'s history.

He glanced up from the neatly-typed, bulleted outline that Harlan had placed in front of him. Like any good reporter, neither he nor Justin would give him their notes unless pressed under duress, and Hayden, like any good managing editor, would never do that. Besides, Hayden had no doubts that either of the men in front of him would choose prison over divulging a source. Which, given what they had, was a real possibility.

There was an air of expectancy in the close room. Hayden looked past the two men, through the open Venetian blinds of his window that looked out onto the bustling bullpen where all his reporters and editors sat in low-walled cubicles (it never failed to amuse him of the utter stereotypical-ness of his fishbowl of an office). He considered his words carefully.

"This story is dynamite," he began.

"Then we have the green-light?" Justin interrupted.

"Not just yet." Hayden raised his hand to silence the redhead.

"I think your contact has more information he's yet to share. He wants us to do the dirty work--which we will, when he gives us something else."

"That's easy for you to say!" Justin growled. Hayden could tell he was livid; he didn't miss Harlan's hand moving out of sight. He guessed it came to a rest on Justin's thigh, because the reporter quieted. "So we sit on this?" he gritted out.

Hayden nodded. It was a delicate dance, but he had experience in that regard; he'd worked the Clinton scandal, had interviewed Ms. Lewinsky herself, before all hell broke loose. This was light-years beyond that.

Hayden settled back into his seat, appraising the two men. Rumor had it that they frequented Nirvana, but he'd yet to see either one there; he wasn't certain that was necessarily a bad thing, though. Whenever he was at the club, Hayden got a certain thrill thinking that he could be observed at any time by either or both of the pair. And, quite possibly, if he ran into them it could lead to ... other things. Other things he wouldn't mind engaging in.

"That's it?" Justin's voice had an edge to it.

"Justin, I think Hayden was quite clear," Harlan said blandly, though Hayden suspected he was equally irritated by his declaration. He wasn't as hot-headed, though.

Hayden leaned forward, a magnanimous smile forming. "I'm not saying that you can't work with what you already have, but before we go rattling cages at the Pentagon, we'd better be sure we're ready for the fallout." Hayden had a feeling that once General Townsend got wind of some reporter nosing around--looking up background information on his son--he'd have an all-out war on his hands. It surprised Hayden that Lee Townsend had been able to make head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff--if any of the rumors were true. And Hayden subscribed to the belief that where there was smoke, there was fire.

It was amazing he'd not ended up the victim of friendly fire long ago.

His son, however, was another matter altogether. Nathan Townsend was everything his father was not--a natural-born, charismatic leader, and a war hero-turned-dove. He would go far in politics, perhaps all the way to the top, which made the notes in front of Hayden all the more troubling.

"I'll make some inquiries of someone I know and trust, and see if anything pans out," he conceded finally.

"Someone at the Pentagon?" Harlan asked astutely. Hayden only nodded his head.

***

"You're an annoying little prick, you know that?"

Gavin sat back in his office chair and lifted a cool gaze to meet Dr. Nils Jarvis's seething expression. Jarvis, the director of psychiatric medicine at the VA Medical Center, was his superior. It was rumored he was a brilliant scientist, but Gavin had yet to see any hint of that. More often, Jarvis could be found in his rabbit warren of an office, poring over data, flicking ash from the end of his forgotten cigarette into an overflowing ashtray.

He irritated Gavin, though Gavin was sure the feeling was mutual. Jarvis chose to wear a white lab coat over his military dress, whereas every other officer on staff, including Gavin, dressed the part--spending at least forty hours a week in uniform. And, while Gavin could forgive his superior the non-regulation length of his hair; his had grown out substantially--the ever-present stubble only added to the man's overall shabbiness and unprofessionalism.

It didn't help that every one of their interchanges was laced with sarcasm.

Gavin felt his blood pressure rising in reaction to the insult, but he held his tongue. He needed Jarvis to show his hand and tip him off as to what he'd done to incur his biting wit, though he had a pretty good idea what had ruffled his superior's feathers. Or rather, who.

"I do what's best for my patients."

"You do what's best for your patients?" Jarvis ran his fingers through his oily-looking hair and wheeled in the small space. "You do what's best for your patients?" he repeated, the volume increasing, along with the incredulity of tone. He stopped pacing in the tiny space in front of Gavin's desk and pinned him with a glare. "You're a _fucking_ resident! You don't even know how to wipe your own ass!" he scoffed, and then muttered, "what's best for his patients," under his breath again for good measure.

Gavin swallowed, but remained silent, returning his superior's gaze unwaveringly. It was Jarvis who finally looked away, his attention drawn to the sole personal item that decorated Gavin's wall: an eight-by-ten framed portrait.

Jarvis stepped up to the photograph and pushed his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. "Who's this?" he asked, not tearing his gaze away. His fingers traced over the glass and Gavin felt his ire rise.

"My father," he ground out, deliberately distilling all emotion from his voice.

"You're lucky." Jarvis wheeled and faced Gavin again, this time the expression on his face unreadable. "What does he do for a living?"

The question shook Gavin. It wasn't a topic he ever felt compelled to discuss, but at the moment, it was buying him time, and he recognized that Jarvis's initial anger was dissipating. "He's dead ... Sir." One thing that Gavin did like about his superior was that Nils Jarvis couldn't care less about military etiquette, but it felt right for Gavin to use the honorific when broaching the topic of his father. It occurred to Gavin then that Jarvis had never so much as set foot in his office in all the months Gavin had been working under him.

"Oh, that's right. Nine-eleven?" He arched a brow inquisitively. Gavin nodded. "Pity."

Jarvis reached into his lab coat and drew out his pack of cigarettes; he tossed one on the desk, then lit up another. Gavin picked up the other and, heedless of the 'No Smoking' sign posted on the wall opposite his office door, did the same. He wondered briefly how Jarvis knew about Konrad's death. It hadn't been common knowledge. Then he shrugged; it wasn't something that he hid, either.

"If there's anything I find more irritating that an underling's insubordination, it's being leaned on from above about it," Jarvis mused out loud. "Having that pissant general in my face first thing in the morning was just the icing on the proverbial cake." He exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

"General Townsend?" Gavin felt the hair on his nape standing on end. That was exactly the kind of attention he was hoping to avoid.

Jarvis waved his hand around; the smoke from his cigarette traced arabesques in the air. "The one and only."

"I see."

"Do you? He told me he could make life quite miserable for me, you know." He leaned both hands on the edge of Gavin's desk, his face drawing close. "I happen to _like_ my little fiefdom here, _sergeant_, so I'd prefer you stop poking your nose where it's most definitely not supposed to be." The smile that graced his face was downright carnivorous. Jarvis turned and closed the door, ensuring their privacy. Gavin took that to mean he was about to be reamed.__

"What about my patient? What if I think--"

"Ha! There's our problem right there!" Jarvis's eyes narrowed. "_We_ aren't being paid to think, _Doctor_ Gavin, didn't you get that memo?" he said bitterly around his clenched cigarette.

He straightened back up. "As I was saying. The only thing I find more irritating than your actions is having some member of the lucky sperm club threatening my livelihood." He reached back into his lab coat pocket, withdrew a jump drive and tossed it onto the desk.

Gavin lifted an eyebrow. "What's this?"

"Only what you were looking for."

Gavin blinked, uncertain he'd heard right.

"If you get caught with that, I'll swear it was stolen from me," Jarvis continued. "From my locked files in my locked office, understand? If you're caught, whatever is on that drive, you will be accused of breaching security to steal. Are you sure you want to play in the big leagues, little boy?"

Gavin nodded mutely, and Jarvis's grin grew wider.

"So, it would be in your best interest to destroy that once you have what you need."

"Okay."

"And one more thing? When you do go there...make sure you're armed. He's about as nutty as a fruitcake."

***

Gavin was grateful for the warning as he hit the dirt under a barrage of bullets. Even so, he'd not been prepared for all-out guerilla warfare. He sidled, belly against the ground, until he managed the relative safety of a low fence. He rolled onto his back and glanced down his chest; his dress uniform was encrusted with West Virginian clay. He cursed, vowing this jackass would be footing the bill.

Then he cocked his gun and fired a warning shot into the air. The report echoed across the Appalachian foothills and set to flight a flock of birds from the bare branches of a stand of trees. It also momentarily stopped the burst of gunfire originating from the open doorway of the dingy trailer home. Gavin was relieved that Campbell Stevens lived on a remote lot at the end of a dirt road. He hadn't seen any sign of civilization the last few miles of his drive.

"Go away! We don't want any!" a whiny voice called out, breaking the deafening silence that had descended after the last echoes died out. Gavin wondered how long it would take for the local police to mosey on out to the place, but judging from the pock-marked trees around him and the bullet-riddled junker parked on the meadow that passed as a front yard, this probably wasn't an unusual occurrence.

Post-traumatic Stress Disorder was a bitch. At least, that had been Nils Jarvis's diagnosis. Gavin's off-the-cuff diagnosis planted Campbell Stevens squarely in the psychotic spectrum, trauma or no.

"Look, I just want to ask you some questions."

The reply came in the form of more rounds. So Gavin took aim from between the pickets and took out a window. The tinkling of glass was satisfying. He had half a mind to shatter them all, but that was vindictive.

"Hey! Stop! That's not fair! You aren't supposed to shoot _at_ me!"

Gavin snorted. This was going to be good; he felt the vein in his temple throbbing from the adrenalin coursing through his body.

"Then _you_ stop shooting at me, _Private_!"

"Who are _you_?"

"Staff Sergeant Gavin Stewart," he called out. "I have some questions regarding your squad leader, Corporal Gideon Smith."

That remark was greeted with more silence. Gavin hazarded a glance at the doorway and watched as Private First Class Campbell Stevens seated himself on the top step of the makeshift stairs to his trailer, elbows on his knees. Beside him lay his handgun, gleaming under the wan late-fall sun. His long, stringy blond hair obscured his eyes and the strawberry birthmark--one Gavin knew from the photos Jarvis had supplied him with--that spilled onto his cheek.

"How do you know Gideon?" he asked as Gavin made his way through the tall grass. Great, he'd have to check for ticks.

Up close, it was impossible to miss the haunted look in the kid's eyes. The skin on his face was drawn just a little too tight across his bones; Gavin would bet his next paycheck he'd be able to count every rib if Campbell were to lift his shirt.

"I'm his doctor."

"You mean shrink. I've only got one thing to say to you, Gideon isn't nuts. I saw what happened," he hissed. "He put the gun to Nat's forehead and pulled the trigger." It was the same story that Gideon had told him, and it made Gavin's skin crawl.

"Why do you think he did what he did?" he asked carefully.

In response, Campbell's eyes grew impossibly wide; Gavin wondered what the hell he was remembering. And then, as quickly as it came on, the deer-in-headlights expression was gone.

"I--I don't know. You'll have to ask him that."

"What did you remember, just then?" Gavin probed, his voice in a forced conversational tone.

"Nothing." Campbell said it far too quickly. Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him. Gavin reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card.

"Look, if you ever need to talk ..." He laid the card by Campbell's bare foot. Campbell looked at it as if it were poisonous.

"So you can shrink my head?"

"You don't have to suffer alone."

"You have no idea what suffering is!" He barked out a laugh that had a near-hysterical quality, and Gavin could glimpse the whites of his eyes through the curtain of hair. Campbell Stevens was downright haunted.

"I'll never step foot in that place again! Now please leave!" He reached for his gun. Gavin didn't wait to be asked twice.

On the way back to the office he contemplated the shared delusion, the abject fear that silenced Campbell Stevens. Something big had been put into play and, whatever it was, it didn't bode well for Nathan Townsend. As much of a prick as General Lee Townsend was, Gavin didn't believe his son should be made to suffer for his old man's sins.

By the time he reached the VA, Gavin had a half-formed plan in his head. He needed to enlist outside help to gain access to documents that could prove his theory, and he knew just where to turn. The call was short and to the point; he wasn't even sure the person on the other end of the line--_Washington Post _ reporter Justin Sharpe--would show up.

***

"It's fucking bullshit, Harlan!" Justin paced back and forth in front of the windows. Dusk was falling, and he'd yet to calm down from their meeting earlier with Hayden.

"He didn't shut us down, Justin. He just wants to put some feelers out."

"Yeah, and then some hack at the _Times_, or worse, _Fox News_ is gonna scoop us," Justin railed.

"Justin, you don't really believe that's true." Harlan poured two scotches from the dry bar. "Your contact chose you for a reason; he knew you were trustworthy."

"Yeah, that and a buck-sixty-five gets me on the Metro." Harlan handed him one glass, then sat down on the low couch that ran perpendicular to the windows.

"What would you like for dinner?"

Justin sighed and took a healthy sip from his drink, then landed heavily on the cushion next to Harlan. He knew the anger was pointless; it wouldn't change the outcome, but it grated that he had to sit on something like this. He needed a distraction. He stole a glance over at Harlan, a sly grin materializing on his lips.

"I'm not hungry ... for food," he added, his voice dropping a few notes lower. Harlan's eyelids fluttered enticingly.

"Hm. Perhaps I'm offering something from the wrong menu," he mused coyly. He gave Justin a sidelong glance, and a smile pulled at his lips before he took a sip from his drink.

Justin turned toward Harlan and leaned his elbow on the back of the couch. He dipped his index finger into his drink and then painted Harlan's lips with the amber liquid. Harlan tilted his head back, revealing the creamy expanse of his throat and whispered "Justin" breathlessly. The needful tone in his voice went straight to Justin's groin. His finger returned to the glass, and this time, when he touched it to Harlan's lips, he slipped it between them as they parted, to skim along the sensitive undersides.

"Just what is it that you want?" Harlan purred before drawing the finger in and sucking on it.

"Oh...definitely more of that..." Justin leaned forward and licked the corner of Harlan's mouth. "I'm a greedy man," he whispered against Harlan's jawline before swiping his tongue along the contour. He ended just behind Harlan's ear and tickled the sensitive spot with his tongue.

Harlan caught Justin's wrist to stay his hand and licked the flat of his tongue across his palm before drawing two fingers deep inside the warm recesses of his mouth. Justin retaliated by scraping his teeth along the side of Harlan's neck. He felt Harlan's throat muscles working underneath his lips as he kissed a path down to Harlan's shoulder. He pulled away reluctantly, placed his drink on the narrow table that was positioned against the back of the couch and then gingerly removed the tumbler from Harlan's hand to join his glass. Harlan released his captured fingers.

"God, you're sexy," Justin rumbled, threading his fingers through Harlan's hair. Justin closed the distance between them to seal their lips in a languid kiss. The day's frustrations slowly melted away as he deepened the kiss, tasting the burning sweetness of the scotch on Harlan's tongue.

The soft groan that formed at the back of Harlan's throat was encouraging. Justin slipped his hand between their bodies and deftly worked the buttons of Harlan's shirt back through their buttonholes. When he reached the last one, Justin parted the material and then dipped his head, laying a trail of kisses straight down the hollow made by Harlan's sternum. Harlan reclined on the couch and Justin lay down with him, a hiss escaping his lips when their erections rubbed together.

"Mm. Now where was I?"

Harlan pressed his face to his chest. "Somewhere in that vic--vicinity," he murmured, his voice hitching when Justin's teeth worried the barbell that bisected a tightening nipple, before closing his teeth on the nub. Justin teased the trapped flesh with his tongue until Harlan began to squirm underneath him, his hips undulating in an erotic rhythm. Justin turned his attention to his other nipple, and repeated the treatment.

"Justin, I want you to fuck me." Harlan's fingers twined in Justin's hair and tugged firmly, pulling him away from his most pleasant task.

"Oh, I have every intention of getting around to that," he said with a devilish grin. He slipped Harlan's glasses from his face. Harlan's pupils were huge.

Justin slid his hands down Harlan's sides, and Harlan's fingers tugged at the hem of Justin's sweater, then yanked it over his head. Justin's brilliant red hair slipped forward, spilling on Harlan's bare skin.

"And you're fucking beautiful," Harlan marveled, as if he couldn't believe his fortune.

"We make a great pair then," Justin murmured, busying himself with the button at the waist of Harlan's slacks. He thumbed the zip and Harlan planted his feet on either side of Justin and raised his ass, helping Justin to pull down his pants enough to free his engorged sex.

Justin descended upon it avidly, his hands firmly pinning Harlan's hips to the cushions as he sucked the ample length to the root.

Harlan sighed, bucking futilely against the strong hands that held him fast. Justin wasted no time pulling Harlan toward his climax, slowly sliding up and down the rigid flesh, feeling it getting larger within the confines of his mouth and throat. Harlan was making the most incredible sounds, and his hands tried to coax Justin to pick up the pace. Justin was having none of that. He continued with his deliberately slow rhythm instead, listening to his lover slowly coming undone.

He had lubricant in his pocket--Justin had learned early in his life that he should always be prepared--and he risked one hand to retrieve it, then tossed it onto Harlan's belly. Harlan needed no further instruction; soon Justin felt a pull at his hand and then his fingers were being slathered liberally with the slick substance. Within seconds, he'd breached Harlan's entrance and was working fervently to stretch him as he continued to pleasure him with his mouth.

"Justin, I'm so close ..." Harlan whispered, his fingers urgently tracing over the redhead's face.

Justin stopped for a second. "Tell me how it makes you feel when I do this to you." He pressed his fingers deeper inside and brushed them over Harlan's prostate.

"When you're doing me like this ... I never want it to end ..." Harlan's voice was thick with desire and pleasure and need, and Justin felt his cock throbbing in response. He curled his fingers, ensuring with each thrust they would slide against that bundle of nerves that drove Harlan so mad. The tang of pre-cum filled his mouth and Justin smiled around Harlan's dick. He slowed down and lightened his touches, taking in only the tip of Harlan's cock; Harlan groaned and thrashed his head. "Fuck!" he hissed, his hips thrusting up suddenly as his ass muscles clenched down on the fingers that were embedded deep inside. Justin, however, was ready; he backed off even more, and stilled his movements. At that, Harlan's control broke and he pistoned his hips and ground against Justin's hand violently, chasing his elusive climax. "Justin, please ..." he begged breathlessly.

He relented, driving his fingers deep inside Harlan, at the same time taking him in to the root. Justin swallowed around Harlan's cock as he came, milking it. He released Harlan when the shudders that wracked his body had become mere tremors and withdrew his fingers. Standing up, he undid his jeans and then pulled Harlan's pants all the way off.

"You're so good to me," Harlan murmured, watching Justin from beneath heavy lidded eyes. His bangs were damp and plastered to his forehead.

"You must have done something right in a past life," Justin replied with a wink. He sat down on the couch, his dick jutting proudly in the air, and stroked himself a bit, turning his head to see Harlan watching him with growing interest. "How 'bout a little payback?"

"Mm. I couldn't think of anything more appropriate at the moment," Harlan said, stretching his arms over his head. Justin devoured him with his eyes as he crawled into his lap, straddling him, then slowly sat down, Justin's hands on his hips guiding him, gently urging him to impale himself.

"God, you're so fucking tight, Harlan." Justin's head dropped back, and he stared at the ceiling briefly before shutting his eyes. He fought for control and managed to remain still, savoring Harlan's every move and the waves of pleasure that rolled over his body in response. He wasn't going to last long.

Harlan's blunt fingernails scraped over Justin's chest, catching on both erect nipples, and then he was kissing Justin hard, his tongue filling his mouth. Justin moaned as he thought about Harlan tasting himself. Finally Harlan moved, raising his hips and then letting them fall back down. White-hot stars burst behind Justin's eyelids.

"That's it," he growled. "Fuck it, baby!"

Somewhere in the distance the phone rang, but neither paid it any heed; the answering machine was in place for a reason. Even the sound of Hayden Thornton's voice failed to dampen their love-making; Justin pumped into Harlan fast and hard, his hands holding Harlan's hips in an iron grip. Harlan matched every thrust, showering him with nips and kisses until, at last sated and exhausted, they both stretched out on the couch in a tangle of limbs. By then, the evening sky had darkened; the room was illuminated by a pale moon rising over the Potomac.

Harlan stirred first, rising to check the message that had been left on the machine. Hayden's voice rang out in the still apartment; it sounded strained.

_I need you both in my office, first thing in the morning. This matter can't be discussed over the phone._

 

For the most part, Gavin's therapy sessions with Gideon had gone well right from the start. As he'd expected, Gideon exhibited no symptoms of schizophrenia--he didn't claim voices in his head, nor did he see things that weren't there and, once Gavin had authorized newspapers, he was fully aware of the present. Nor did he have any of the negative symptoms of the ailment. He wasn't emotionally distant or inappropriate--his behavior the opposite of catatonic--Gideon was always happy to see him; he greeted Gavin with the brightest of smiles, practically bouncing in his seat. The kid really liked him, and Gavin found it difficult not to reciprocate the affection.

Gideon had had a tough life--he'd been in the foster care system since he was new-born, having been abandoned on the steps of the National Cathedral. No family had ever requested to adopt him, and so he'd bounced around the system until he was seventeen, when he was counseled out. Usually, at that point kids turned to crime and end up living out their lives in an endless cycle of prison time and release. But Gideon, despite his average performance in school, had chosen to join the military. It had really been his only option, and he had been fortunate that it turned out to be a good fit.

Allowing Gideon access to news had been a big risk, but Gavin had been confident he'd be able to handle any fallout that might occur. With the coming inauguration of the President-elect, Kassandra Bouchonville, along with the incoming freshmen Congressional and Senate members, Gavin knew that Gideon would run across Nathan's name, even if just in passing. If it bothered Gideon when that happened, it didn't outwardly show in his behavior.

But he still clung to his conviction that he'd killed Nathan Townsend. Faced with the incontrovertible evidence that Nathan was alive and well, he maintained that the young politician must be an imposter. Gavin knew there was an extremely rare disorder that fit Gideon's delusion, yet something held him back from diagnosing Capgras' Syndrome. That thing was the utter blank wall he kept running up against in their therapy sessions: whenever the subject neared the time of the imaginary incident Gideon laid claim to, he shut down completely. At first, Gavin thought it was a classic case of resistance, and he hammered away to no avail. Gideon's entrenched belief was unshakeable, to the point that Gavin almost began to believe it too, which led to his questioning his own sanity.

From there, it wasn't hard for Gavin to come up with a new hypothesis--that Gideon had been involved in some kind of secret experiment. The annals of US military history were littered with such tarnishing episodes--like the Edgewood Arsenal scandal. But that facility had been closed long before Gideon or he had been born. Gavin knew, though, that didn't mean the experiments had stopped. He also believed that Lee Townsend's interest in his enquiries was more than fatherly interest. Something big was being covered up. He couldn't fathom Townsend hanging his own son out to dry, so it had to be something that reached all the way to the top of the food chain.

There had to be a trail somewhere, no matter how faint.

He had pored over Gideon's records, looking for anything that could stand out as suspicious. They were stellar. Gideon had been a model Marine right from the day he enlisted. He'd breezed through basic training and come out easily at the top of his class. Over the course of his service, he'd had several commendations for bravery over five separate tours in Iraq. And he hadn't served in the Green Zone or Baghdad proper. He'd been stationed in Fallujah and had seen a lot of insurgent action. Gideon had participated in both major battles for Fallujah--and had earned a Silver Star for his heroic service. He'd been promoted to corporal and made a squad leader; the letters from his superiors were glowing. All mentioned that he would go as far as he wished in his military career.

Then Jarvis had given him Campbell Stevens's records. With the exception of promotions to the ranks and the glowing letters, they were nearly identical. A coldness crept over Gavin's body. There were men he'd served with in special ops for several missions, and yet his records and theirs didn't have the same uniformity.

It was just too perfect.

Gavin had sat on the information for a couple of days, trying to make sense of it. Then he went to see the other Marine for himself. And heard the exact same story.

The next night he'd given copies of everything he had, with the exception of the video-taped sessions, to the reporter from the _Post_.

And until that newshound got his hands on the other records--if he even could--there was nothing Gavin could do about it. A twinge of guilt passed through his mind; he probably should have warned the guy how dangerous it might be, but something about the reporter had rubbed Gavin the wrong way, and a gun to the forehead should have been enough notice. Even so, right now Justin Sharpe was his only hope of cracking the mystery of just what had happened to Gideon and, from all indications, Campbell Stevens as well, that they would believe such a fantastical tale.

More troubling to Gavin, though, was why.

From down the hall he heard a booming voice that he immediately recognized as Lee Townsend's, followed by the much softer cadence of Nils Jarvis. Gavin didn't have to hear the conversation to know what it was about, but he did want to know how much shit he was in. He decided to take a stroll by the water cooler, the better to eavesdrop without being seen.

"I can assure you, General, Sir, that if there was a leak to the press, it was not from my office." Jarvis's voice was laced with false obsequiousness.

"I warned you what would happen if this nonsense didn't stop," the General rumbled, seemingly unaware of the false tone. "Did you think my threats were idle?" His voice dripped with simmering rage.

There was a pregnant pause and Gavin wondered exactly what Jarvis would say, now that the bear's claws had been bared.

"Oh, yesss, Sir, I heard you loud and clear," he countered unctuously. "And honestly, I'm amazed that you could return not a week later accusing my department of ..." There was a dramatic pause. "I'm sorry, Sir, for the record...did you say these files were a matter of national security?"

It was the General who blinked first.

"You know that isn't the problem." There was a little apprehension in his voice.

"Because I wouldn't want it to be said...no I wouldn't want anyone to think I'd been less than patriotic in upholding my duties as a decorated officer in the United States armed forces.

"That would be very bad, Sir. I don't think either of us would want that to come to pass."

Apparently Jarvis had some trump card.

"You will pay for this," Lee Townsend seethed. "I want a full accounting of your department's day-to-day operations on my desk by five pm tonight."

"I can save you the trouble, Sir." Jarvis said amid a theatrical shuffling of paper. "I have one right here. Only, it's rather ... detailed." There was a heavy _thud_. Gavin begrudgingly admired what could only be described as Jarvis's colossal set of balls.

And, what was more, whatever he had on Townsend, it was big.

"Just keep your little lap dog--whoever it is--heeled," Townsend spat before departing. He stormed down the hall, toward the elevator bank.

Gavin watched his back recede, then bent to pour himself a paper cup of chilled water.

"In my office, _now_, Sergeant!"

Gavin could only guess how Jarvis knew he was there. _Shit._ He drank the cup, then appeared dutifully in front of his commanding officer.

"We're very industrious, aren't we?" Jarvis's face was unreadable.

"I'm not sure what you mean, S--"

"Cut the crap. Where's the jump drive?"

"I have it here." Gavin reached his hand in his trouser pocket. It re-emerged with the drive.

A cruel smile curled Jarvis's lips. "You gave him duplicates?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sir," Gavin bluffed. "I was just trying to gather facts about my patient's background.

Jarvis nodded. "You're a lot smarter than I gave you credit for." He picked up the lighter that was lying on his desk. Holding the jump drive between thumb and forefinger, he brought the flame to it. The acrid smell of burning plastic filled the room.

"You're dismissed. Close the door behind you...we wouldn't want to set off any alarms."

Gavin made it back to his office and collapsed into his chair. He leaned back and stared at the acoustic tiles above his head. He was being stone-walled and he didn't like it. But he was powerless against it. He had a sinking feeling that his reporter was probably going to be getting a visit from the good General; that would probably have the redhead pissing his pants. Gavin almost regretted that he wouldn't be there to witness it. Even so, it was in his best interest to arrange another meeting.

Gavin glanced at the portrait of his father hanging on the wall. He wished he could call Konrad; he'd know what to do.

***

"I had an interesting meeting yesterday afternoon, after you left for the day," Hayden started. They were seated by the fountain in Dupont Circle; Justin found it ironic that Hayden's choice for a meeting (too many prying eyes at the office) was the exact same place he'd met his contact two days before.

The park was much friendlier in the crisp morning. Much friendlier without a certain blond packing heat.

Hayden had a manilla envelope tucked under one arm. He lifted the lid off his café latte and blew across the surface. Justin watched him with growing interest, swearing to himself at Harlan for planting naughty thoughts in his brain. Not that he needed much help. Hayden's lips were sensual. Hell, he could put those succulent things all over Justin's body and Justin wouldn't mind--especially if it meant watching Harlan watching the action. That thought sent a shiver down his spine. There was something so very erotic about having Harlan's eyes on him while he was doing someone else; it never failed to turn him on. Of course the way Harlan would _possessively_ fuck him afterward was just an added benefit. Justin liked feeling owned like that; no one had even considered him 'boyfriend material' before Harlan.

Although Hayden frequented Nirvana, they had no reason to believe he switched. In the past Hayden had been linked with the President-elect--as a Senator, Kassandra Bouchonville was a well-known cougar--though, whatever relationship they may have had certainly wasn't exclusive. Both Hayden and Kassandra were often seen around the chic restaurants in Georgetown in the company of other significant others.

A sharp pain in his instep brought Justin out of his musings. Harlan flashed him an angelic smile. He was on to him.

"...he gave me all the documents."

"He did?" Justin blurted, earning him a quick glance from Hayden's alluring eyes. He could drown in their depths. Damn Harlan!

"Do you have a problem with that?" Hayden asked silkily.

"No...No I was just surprised!" Justin floundered. He wondered who 'he' was.

There was an awkward silence.

"As you were saying," Harlan cut in, "General Townsend himself brought the documents over?"

"Every last one of them on the list. I have them here." Hayden motioned with his chin to the envelope.

"That's weird," Justin observed.

"Very," Hayden agreed.

"Those 'didn't seem like any of the _Post_'s other FOI requests," Harlan added. "Is that why we're sitting by this fountain?"

"White noise," Hayden replied, then took another sip of his coffee.

"It's something big." Justin felt a pit form in his stomach at this revelation. "Can I see the documents?"

Hayden loosened his grip. "They're useless."

Harlan took the envelope. "You looked?"

"Of course I did."

"Wait a second." Justin knit his brow, "you said that we were to sit on the request, that you were going to make some enquiries. You went through our--"

"I did no such thing!" Hayden scowled at Justin, and he felt immediately chastised for thinking the worst of his editor. "I merely called a friend of mine--the incoming Secretary of State--"

"Do you think he ratted you out?"

"He's one of my oldest friends. We went to prep school together; I was Best Man at his wedding, I'm godfather to his oldest boy. I'd stake my life on it that he's not involved in a cover-up."

"But the next thing you know--" Harlan prompted.

"General Lee Townsend is harassing the receptionist, demanding a meeting. And he has every document we were going to request, minus the red herrings.

"Justin, are you sure you weren't set up?"

The thought had crossed his mind. "I don't think I was. He seemed so...certain." He shook his head, a little less sure now. "If he was leading me on, he's damn better than anyone I've ever run into."

Hayden nodded his head. "When I couldn't reach you on the phone, I hazarded a look at the documents," he admitted.

Justin felt a hot rush of blood, remembering just why they'd been unreachable. He looked guiltily at Harlan, who was poker-faced. He had to have ice water running in his veins, Justin decided.

"And besides, I took the heat," he ventured, "I think I earned the look."

It was what a good editor did. No, Justin thought, it was what a _great_ editor did. Hayden had shielded them, had put himself in the line of fire.

"What makes the documents useless?" Harlan asked.

Hayden sighed. "What makes the documents useless is that they are completely clean. There's nothing, not one thing that supports anything your informant suspects."

Justin's shoulders sagged. "So my contact, he's a nut job?" Justin threaded his fingers through his hair.

"Hayden didn't say that." Harlan's voice had an edge to it; Justin could almost feel him buzzing inside his woolen overcoat. It took a few seconds, but then he caught on.

"Yeah, I know." The energy was contagious, Justin's lips curled into a grin. He turned to Hayden. "Did he bring you flowers, too?"

Hayden laughed. It was the kind of laugh that caressed the skin. It was made for the bedroom. Justin swore to himself that he was going to make Harlan pay, that was certain. Maybe make him wear a blindfold if they ever managed to get Hayden on board for a romp.

"I think he thought his gift to me was just a slap on my wrists."

"He didn't!" Harlan looked incredulous. "Either he's got something to back it up or he's incredibly stupid."

"Or he's just rattling his saber because it's all he can do. He's gone from power in less than two months. Either way, I can't let this go now."

Hayden walked away to toss his empty coffee cup into a nearby trash receptacle. Justin watched his delectable ass, which peeked out from underneath his leather biker jacket.

"I know what you're thinking," Harlan murmured.

"Shut up."

"He's all muscle underneath. You can tell when he wears those tailored button-downs. And I don't have to mention the form-fitting pants."

"Harlan!" It came out more whine than admonishment, because Justin was already hooked. Now Harlan was just being mean. He was deliberately working him up. Justin scowled at his lover.

"Am I interrupting something?" Hayden trapped Justin under his gaze.

"Of course not. Please accept our apologies, we were only discussing our plans for the evening. Justin promised to take me out."

"Anywhere interesting?" Hayden's gaze shifted to Harlan.

"Just a local club--Nirvana."

Justin would have dropped his jaw if he'd had enough working brain cells to devote to the action. As it was, they were all trying to process Harlan's bald-faced audacity.

"Hm. I'll have to check it out sometime." Justin swore Hayden flashed him a predatory smile but, by the time it registered, his expression was neutral.

"Have you heard from your contact?" he asked, shifting the conversation back to the reason for their clandestine meeting.

Justin shook his head.

"I'd say you will be, sooner than later. This time you have something to share."

***

The message Hayden had anticipated was waiting for Justin when he returned from lunch.

_"Meet me at the same place at the same time tonight"_.

Nothing more, nothing less, just that flat-toned voice. It sent a shiver up Justin's spine, and the rest of the afternoon passed in a blur as his thoughts kept returning to the impending meeting. At least he had some ammunition this time, and a bit of righteous indignation he could use.

As he waited for his informant, Justin felt a calm settle over him. This meeting would go a lot differently than the first.

He watched a dark figure emerge from the crowd flowing from the Metro station steps. Funny, he could recognize the guy even though he'd just met him once.

"What do you have for me?" Justin took the offensive.

The blond leaned against the chess table, offering Justin is profile. He reached into his coat pocket, and Justin felt the adrenalin rush until the man produced a pack of Marlboros.

"Can I get one of those?" he asked and was rewarded with a hard stare. For a minute Justin thought he'd be refused, but the blond relented and handed him the pack after removing a cigarette for himself.

Justin watched as he lit his and exhaled a plume of smoke. The act soothed his fraying nerves.

"I was going to ask you the same question," the blond said sourly.

"Are you setting me up?" The question earned him another glare. Justin didn't back down; he steadily returned the gaze.

"I don't play with people's lives."

"But you do withhold information." Violet eyes widened momentarily before the blond smiled around his cigarette. Even though that smile didn't reach his eyes, Justin mentally patted himself on the back; he'd been right, the guy was even more beautiful. He bet voicing that opinion would get him a kick in the nuts, though.

"The gun didn't tip you off? I thought you were a seasoned reporter," he sneered.

"Touché."

The grin became genuine for the barest of seconds, before the blond struck a match to the end of his cigarette.

Justin placed the manilla envelope on the chessboard embedded in the table.

"Interesting thing happened yesterday. Maybe you can shed some light on it."

"You were visited by one Lee Townsend."

"You aren't surprised."

"Not really. I'd expected to fly under the radar, but I think he has an accounting even for worms." He shrugged his shoulders, then rolled his neck. Justin watched closely. There was none of the tension in his body from the other evening. He seemed resolved. Defeated, even.

"Even more interesting is that we only reached out. We didn't even get to the request, but he seemed to know exactly what we were going to request. Don't you find that interesting?"

"Depends. Who did you reach out to?"

Justin shrugged and brushed off the question with one of his own.

"Aren't you interested in what we got?"

A shake of blond hair signaled the guy wasn't. "I have a good idea that the documents are perfectly in order, perfectly fabricated and perfectly useless."

Justin sighed. "Yeah, that's about the size of it. So where do we go from here? Why not to the target?"

Another shrug, and a long, slow release of smoke. "My first allegiance is to my patient--"

"But you have a responsibility if someone else's life is threat--"

"What I have is a _hunch_," he gritted out around the filter. "Primum non nocere.'"

"Sorry?"

He barked a derisive laugh. "I'm the one who's sorry." he said, his lips drawing into a tight line. He left Justin to ponder what he was sorry for.

"What did you say? Before? I didn't understand...the language?"

"Latin. 'First, do no harm.' If this explodes in my face--if I'm wrong--I've fucked my patient." He took another drag then exhaled. "I've got nothing." His shoulders slumped over as he hunched against the cold breeze.

Justin realized then that he'd been his informant's only shot.

"I'm sorry, man. If it means anything, we're not giving up. We believe you."

The blond snorted and rolled his eyes to catch Justin's gaze. "That will be comforting when the shit hits the fan."

"You seem certain that's the only outcome." The blond shrugged again. "Can you keep your patient secure?"

"Yeah."

"What about the other guy?"

"He's not my patient." He stubbed out his cigarette, and then looked up at the rising moon. It was just past full and hung low in the sky, a big orange face grazing the tops of the bare trees. He turned back to Justin, a flash of uncertainty clouding his eyes.

"How well do you trust your contact at the Pentagon?"

"My editor stakes his life on him."

"I guess I'll have to, then, too." He reached in his pocket, pulled out a card and laid it face down on the envelope.

"Are you sure you want me to have this?" Justin asked after the surprise had worn off.

"No." He folded his arms over his chest. "But I'm out of options."

Justin picked up the card and turned it over.

_Sgt. Gavin Stewart, MD  
Washington, DC VA Medical Center  
Dept. of Psychiatric Medicine  
(203) 333-9000 x. 5839_

"I'd give you mine, but you already seem to have no problem tracking me down," Justin said wryly. He rubbed his cigarette out on the rough concrete surface. He looked up at Gavin questioningly.

"Pass that on to your contact."

***

Dinner was waiting for Justin when he arrived at the apartment, and he filled Harlan in over the meal. He helped Harlan clean up, washing the pots and pans while he loaded the dishwasher.

"Gavin Stewart must be in dire straights if he's risking exposing himself like that," he remarked as he leaned over to place the dinner dishes in the lower drawer.

"Or he's already pretty sure Lee Townsend has him in his sights, and he's looking for cover."

"Well, he'll get no better cover than Grayson."

"You believe Hayden? That he's trustworthy?"

"Everything about the incoming administration has been trustworthy, Justin. The complete opposite of what we've had to deal with the past eight years."

"Yeah. What a change that's gonna be. Might put us out of a job."

"Highly doubtful. I'm sure the Radical Right will still be out in droves."

Justin nodded. With a woman as the incoming President, he had to agree. "Maybe I should give Hayden a call and let him know."

"You can tell him we'll be at Nirvana by eleven."

"You were serious? About going out tonight?"

Harlan closed the dishwasher and moved behind Justin, wrapping his arms around his waist. He let one hand drag over his fly, rubbing his palm over his crotch. His other hand pulled Justin's long hair over his shoulder and away from his ear.

"If you aren't in the mood..." his breath was hot against Justin's neck. He ended his statement with a nip.

"No! Yes! I mean, I am, I am!"

***

Hayden edged his way around the crowded dance floor toward the much quieter VIP bar at the rear of the club. He'd passed along the information that Justin had given him over the phone, and Grayson had promised to keep him in the loop if anything came of it. There was nothing more to be done, at least for the moment, and he was looking forward to cutting loose for the weekend.

The dance floor was a mass of sweaty bodies; it was impossible to cross the expanse without hands grabbing and feeling up various body parts--reciprocity was not only acceptable, it was encouraged. But Hayden had his sights set on one prey in particular.

Beyond the bar was a set of play rooms that could be reserved for privacy. Many had one-way mirrors so that anyone in adjoining rooms could be treated to a free show. Hayden found an opening at the bar with a good vantage point of both the dance floor and the hallway that led to the rooms, and then ordered a Jack and coke. Normally he wouldn't drink that kind of swill, but no one came to Nirvana to get drunk, that was just a by-product.

He was well into his second drink when he spotted them. It was easy to pick Justin out by the unmistakable cut and cast to his hair, which was even more brilliant under the red lighting of the club. He was wearing a long-sleeved mesh shirt. Harlan, who was directly in front of him, had on only an open-front vest. As they neared the bar, Hayden was able to see that Justin was wearing a dog collar, and Harlan was leading him around on a leash. Then Harlan spotted him and turned to say something to Justin. He saw the redhead nod his head once, and they changed direction, coming toward him. Hayden lowered his lids; things were about to get interesting.

"Have you been here long?" Harlan asked over the droning backbeat of the club music.

"Long enough," Hayden replied, his eye catching the wink of metal embedded in Harlan's nipple. He opened the loose lapel of the brunet's vest, his eyes never leaving Harlan's face. Harlan's assent was barely noticeable--just a curt dip of his chin--but it was enough. Hayden thumbed over the jewelry, then circled the aureole.

"Like what you see?" Justin's voice was husky at Hayden's ear. "He prefers to watch, though."

Harlan turned to the bartender and ordered drinks for himself and Justin, then pointed at Hayden's. But before he could pay, Hayden put down a fifty-dollar bill. He leaned across the bar.

"Let me know when a room opens up." The bartender scooped up the money in a fluid motion, and Hayden laid down two more bills to pay for the drinks.

Neither Harlan nor Justin seemed surprised by his presence, giving credence to Hayden's burgeoning suspicion that he'd been deliberately targeted by them. Not that it mattered to him; rather, it was all the more sexy.

"Is that true?" he asked Harlan.

"Would that be a hardship?" he replied, one brow arching.

"Not really." Hayden gave him a broad grin. The bartender returned with the round and Hayden finished his drink. When he turned around, he was treated to a sultry display. Harlan yanked on the leash, pulling Justin to him and capturing his lips. The kiss was hot--all open lips and questing tongues, both Harlan and Justin glancing over at Hayden from time to time, making sure he was enjoying the show.

Mindful of Justin's comment, as they separated, Hayden grabbed a fistful of crimson hair and pulled the redhead toward him, crushing their lips together. Hayden ravished Justin's mouth while his hands twined through his silky hair. He imagined he was tasting both Harlan and Justin at the same time, and that thought sent a flush of arousal through his body. He felt the soft vibration of Justin's throaty moan. And then hands cupped his ass and Justin was grinding sensually against him. Hayden groaned softly into the kiss and let Justin dominate for a few seconds before wresting back control and ending the kiss.

His lips were tingling when he picked up his drink and took a sip.

He turned to Harlan and brought his lips to his ear to lick the three silver loops that decorated the lobe before speaking.

"I hope it won't be too much of a hardship for you." Hayden deliberately repeated. He dropped his hand and let his fingers feather over the tight leather that stretched across Harlan's ass. He felt him shiver beneath the gentle touch.

"I'll manage." The smile on his face was nearly a leer when he dropped the end of the leash on the bar beside Hayden's drink.

Hayden looked at it thoughtfully for a few seconds before winding it around his hand. The Jack combined with the heady knowledge that he'd found two willing partners in Harlan and Justin was making him dizzy. Hayden had no illusions that at the club he was no longer their supervisor; here they were just three of many, drawn in for an evening of hedonism. Whatever happened between them would stay behind when they left Nirvana.

When he looked up, the bartender was standing opposite him. "Room number five is being made up for you. I'll let you know when it's ready."

Hayden smiled and took another sip of his drink. He caught Justin's eyes on him in the mirror behind the bar and turned to him.

"If you want to back out, now's the time."

Justin only smiled. "Hell no! Give it your best shot."

Hayden pulled the leash tight. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Right back atcha." Justin glanced over his shoulder, assuring Hayden that Harlan was watching them, and then he pressed their lips together. He kissed Hayden slowly and thoroughly, first lazily licking his lips, and then delving his tongue inside the warm recesses of his mouth. Justin's tongue teased Hayden's, coaxing it to explore his mouth, and his hands came to a rest on Hayden's shoulders, maintaining space between their bodies. The kiss built slowly in intensity, Justin coyly pulling back every time Hayden threatened to control it. It was maddening--Hayden wanted to dominate him, wanted to frot against him, rub their bodies together. It was incredibly erotic too, especially because he could feel Harlan's breath on the back of his neck.

"The bartender says we can go," Harlan murmured in his ear. Reluctantly Hayden pulled away from Justin. But he was achingly hard, and looking forward to giving Harlan an eyeful, though Hayden hoped that would be reciprocated.

He led them down the hall past the first four doors. The walls were sound-proofed and the music penetrated only faintly. Hayden could hear his pulse pounding in his veins. He held onto Justin's leash, and Harlan fell in behind the redhead. The door to their room was open. Hayden stood aside and let them both in first, giving them the opportunity to acclimate.

The walls were covered with a thick charcoal felt that helped dampen the sound further. Once Hayden closed the door, though, the music the DJ was playing for the dance floor filtered in through hidden speakers. He didn't bother locking it because he really didn't care if anyone happened upon them; given the nature of the club, it would only be by accident or emergency.

 

The room was dominated by a platform bed.

Well, it wasn't really a bed, Justin decided, as much as a three-inch black vinyl mat on a platform. Easy clean-up, and sanitary. A loveseat was pushed up against the wall opposite the foot of the bed; a low table occupied most of the space between; the wall behind the headboard was made up entirely of mirror, as was the ceiling above the platform.

Harlan took a seat on the couch. Justin knew exactly what to do next. He turned to face Hayden. He was wearing an iridescent, form-fitting button-down with short sleeves over impossibly tight black jeans. Justin's eyes traveled over Hayden's toned body, focusing at the prominent bulge at his groin.

He licked his lips and dropped to his knees in front of him, parting his lips to mouth over Hayden's cloth-covered erection. He was rewarded with a soft groan and a roll of Hayden's hips. His hands made short work of the button that fastened the waist, and then Justin pulled down the fly using only his teeth. He peeled the jeans from Hayden's hips.

Hayden's hands fisted his hair, and the blunt tip of his flushed erection bobbed against Justin's lips. He parted them and Hayden's cock slid in, filling Justin's mouth. Before he could react, Hayden pulled back then slid in deeper. The grip on his head intensified as Hayden fucked his mouth; Justin felt the links of the leash's chain rub against his scalp.

"Get it nice and wet," Hayden purred.

_Fuck_. That didn't sound to Justin like he would be topping, but then again, Hayden wasn't the one wearing the collar, either. He felt Hayden's dick swelling in his mouth, and Justin scraped his teeth against the length, eliciting a soft hiss and the warm tang of pre-cum. He slid his hands over the firm curve of Hayden's bare ass, daring to delve his fingers into the crevice.

Hayden pulled him up roughly and attacked his mouth. Justin retaliated, pulling at Hayden's shirt-tails, yanking them up, exposing more skin. The thought crossed his mind to just rip the damned shirt off his body, but there was that niggling detail that the man was his boss.

Unbuttoning--the old-fashioned way--it was. He slipped his hands under the opened garment, palms flat against Hayden's sculpted chest.

"Good eyes, Harlan," Justin remarked as he feasted on Hayden's naked chest before turning to his lover. Harlan looked breathtaking, his lips slightly parted, one hand in his lap, feathering over his crotch in a slow rhythm. The pale strip of skin from his throat to his waistband was glowing ethereally.

"Why don't you make yourself comfortable, Harlan," Hayden joined Justin's attention.

"Justin, you're overdressed," Harlan replied. The simple comment sent a jolt of electricity plummeting to Justin's balls.

"I think I can help with that." Hayden reached for the leash and undid the clip as Justin pulled his sheer shirt over his head. Hayden kicked off his shoes and finished disrobing as Justin did the same. He reached for the collar.

"Leave the collar on."

"Anything for you, babe." Justin dropped his hands to his side, but remained facing Hayden.

A smile bloomed on Hayden's face and he replaced the leash. They were both naked, dicks stiff and sliding against each other. Hayden was swaying to the beat and Justin moved with him. Hayden stepped in, pulling the chain taut; the heat from his body caressed Justin's bare skin.

Hayden turned to Harlan; he'd obviously caught on that Harlan was calling the shots. Justin was relieved that that didn't seem to be a problem. He slipped his hand between their bodies, sliding it along Hayden's inner thigh, to tease his fingertips over his sensitive balls.

"Justin." Harlan's voice had that needful sound. It was fantastic, and it was almost enough to make him come on the spot. "Get on the bed, on your hands and knees."

The tight lead was loosened for a second, and Hayden's bi-colored gaze raked over Justin's body before he pressed his larger frame the length of Justin's. Hayden's tongue slid along Justin's neck to his ear.

"It's showtime," he murmured.

"You're an awful good sport about this."

Hayden chuckled. "I should complain when I get to fuck that mighty fine ass?" A resounding _slap_ rang out, and Justin nearly yelped from surprise and not a little bit from the sting on his cheek. He glanced over his shoulder at the mirrored wall and found a perfect red handprint on his ass.

Justin climbed onto the platform and positioned himself facing Harlan. He watched Hayden crouch in front of Harlan, his back to him.

Hayden slid his hand over Harlan's cheek in a soft caress, then thumbed over his lower lip. "The bed's big enough for three."

Behind his glasses, Harlan's eyes had a wild look. For a second Justin thought Hayden had breached the wall Harlan created; he had never joined in before. On the other hand, Justin had always been the one doing the fucking before. Tonight was a first.

"Are you okay with this?" he asked, suddenly uncertain.

Harlan tilted his head and focused on Justin. "I'm the one who wanted it."

"That doesn't mean you can't have a change of heart," Hayden said quietly. He leaned forward and brushed his lips over Harlan's, and then handed him back the end of the leash and stood up. For a few seconds they were silent and frozen to their spots. Justin's eyes moved from one man to the other, feeling very much hanging in the balance. Then Harlan reached into his pocket.

"You'll need this," he said tossing a small vial to Hayden.

Hayden knelt behind Justin and ran his hands over his back. "He's beautiful," he remarked. He stroked Justin's ass with his length. Harlan tightened the leash, taking up all the slack. Justin pinned his eyes to him and breathed out a low whine as Hayden began to stretch him with one hand while trailing the other lazily over his dick and his balls.

"Baby, loosen up," he crooned. "Touch yourself." Hayden's fingers slid in and out, inching deeper and deeper. Justin dropped to his elbows and then nearly howled when Hayden brushed against his prostate. "Please baby," he sighed, but soon he couldn't speak anymore, he could only pant as his prostate was rubbed each time Hayden pressed in. He was being incredibly gentle, and soon Justin was grinding against the invading fingers, wanting more. He heard the sound of a zipper and glanced up through the curtain of his hair just in time to see Harlan stroking himself. His dick was an angry purple, and its head glistened with pre-cum. Harlan groaned as he fondled himself. Justin licked his lips. Hayden's fingers slid from his passage, and Justin felt his cheeks being separated, then the pressure of his cock against his entrance. It pressed in slowly, filling him, until Hayden's hips were molded against his ass.

"Please," he whispered. He was losing his mind, his eyes glued to Harlan's hand jacking himself off, his body tense; he wanted nothing more than for Hayden to let go and fuck him with abandon. But it seemed Hayden had other ideas. His hands held Justin's hips fast as he slid in and out slowly, carefully, in a rhythm Justin was sure was purposefully meant to drive him insane.

Harlan's hand moved more quickly. Hayden matched the pace, and Justin couldn't imagine anything hotter--it was as if Harlan were fucking him by proxy.

Harlan's hand danced over the tip of his erection. Hayden responded by pulling out of Justin until just the crown of his erection was inside as his hand mimicked Harlan's ministrations on Justin's cock. Justin nearly sobbed from the sensation.

"Please, baby," he rasped, his voice a broken whisper. "I need you. I need to taste you. I want to suck you off while he--while Hayden fucks me." Justin was nearly gone and no longer knew what he was saying; he only knew that he was incredibly grateful when he tasted Harlan's essence on his lips. He eagerly licked the engorged flesh before Harlan pushed it inside his mouth.

Within seconds Harlan matched Hayden's pace, and the thought flitted through Justin's mind that he was being fucked from either end. Their hands roved over his body, massaging, groping, pinching, and then someone, most likely Hayden, was jacking him off, hard and fast.

After a while, Harlan stilled. His hands slid through Justin's hair, gripping it close to the scalp before he felt them gathering the damp, sweaty strands into a ponytail, and he came, flooding Justin's mouth. He felt some of the fluid escape and dribble down his chin as Harlan's movements stilled. Justin relaxed his mouth and Harlan crouched down and licked up the rivulet before standing back up. Justin dragged his tongue along the dark line of hair that bisected Harlan's lower abdomen, and Hayden leaned forward, his teeth nipping at Justin's bared nape.

Justin groaned; he was so close to coming. He thrust his hips wantonly and devoured Harlan's mouth as he felt his climax bearing down. Hayden tightened his grip on his dick as he pounded into Justin, his drives becoming erratic, his teeth finding purchase on the sharp protrusion of Justin's shoulder blade. Hayden rolled his thumb over the tip of Justin's cock, delving it into the slit, and the sensation pushed Justin over the edge. Justin came hard, his cry absorbed by Harlan's mouth. Harlen pulled away, and stood up, but before he could step back, Hayden captured his hips with his hands. Hayden's pace slowed and he came seconds later, Justin tilted his head up to watch Hayden's tongue teasing at the metal hoop that decorated Harlan's nipple before he engulfed the rosy peak with his mouth. The moan drew from Harlan caused Justin to shiver with delight. He dipped his head and sought out one of Harlan's balls. He sucked the fragile sphere into his mouth and slowly released it as Harlan writhed in response to the dual teasing.

When Justin could trust himself to speak--long after they'd disentangled and all stretched out on the cushion, him sandwiched between Harlan and Hayden--he could only marvel over and over, "holy shit." He'd expected that his satisfaction would come in the form of knowing how much it pleased Harlan--not that he'd thought being fucked by Hayden wouldn't be pleasurable. But when Harlan had joined them, it had catapulted his emotions onto a higher plane altogether. It was no longer him performing for his lover, it had become all of them performing for each other.

Harlan murmured a quiet assent; Hayden just chuckled.

 

Gavin arrived at Gideon's room and let himself in. The kid didn't look up from the comic book he was reading until Gavin dropped his cargo on the bed.

"What the heck are those?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"Track shoes."

Gideon'd complained the last few sessions that he was feeling flabby (not that Gavin noticed any change in his physique) and, after some careful thought and planning, Gavin had prepared an outing for him. If it worked, he would incorporate it into his therapy plan.

"What're they for?"

"Running."

"I know that, smartass!"

Gavin squelched the smile that had threatened to form. "You said you felt you were getting out of shape."

"Great. So what? Now I get to do laps around the ward?" Gideon glared at him.

Gavin laid the duffel bag he'd been shouldering at the foot of the bed. He unzipped the flap and pulled out a pair of charcoal grey sweatpants, matching sweatshirt, and a white tee shirt.

"Wait a second! You ain't in uniform!"

"You noticed." Gavin laid the items on the bed on top of the sneakers. "I don't usually jog in uniform, not since basic training."

The glare had turned into something else altogether. A wary hopefulness. Gavin pushed the pile toward Gideon.

"So are you up for a run along the reservoir?"

The comic book went flying in a flutter of pages as Gideon bounded off the bed. In a fluid motion, Gideon pulled his tee-shirt over his head and then slipped the loose sleep pants off of his hips. They pooled at his ankles before he kicked them off. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him, Gavin noted, before he turned his head away for the sake of the kid's modesty.

It wasn't as if either of them hadn't stripped in front of another man, or a barracks-full of them for that matter, hundreds of times before, but Gavin was acutely aware of the power inequity. He took the opportunity to glance around the room. There was nothing homey about it--it was bereft of any personal effects. No notes from loved ones hanging on the bulletin board, no holiday cards from any civilian friends or military buddies. For someone so outgoing and friendly--the way Gideon was--it was strange. It was as if he'd fallen off the face of the earth. It was another similarity Gideon had with Campbell Stevens.

They'd been the perfect candidates for brainwashing. The only problem with that hypothesis was that brain-washing wasn't recognized as a legitimate psychiatric condition, so his research had been limited to fringe web sites and the writings of conspiracy-theorists. It had been nearly impossible to find anything helpful. The only exception was an obscure dissertation written by one Nils Jarvis: _On Mind Control as a Viable Method of Countering Fundamental Terrorism_. Because of the ethics involved, it wasn't a research manuscript; it dealt with historical examples, and its theoretical framework built upon them, but it quickly became Gavin's bible. He didn't let his supervisor know that detail, though.

"I'm ready!"

Gavin glanced at the kid, who was practically jumping out of his skin in a barely controlled effort to contain his exuberance.

"One more thing." He reached into the depths of the bag and pulled out a set of handcuffs. "Hold out your hand."

Gavin slapped the cuff around Gideon's wrist, and then took the free one and captured his own wrist in it.

"Now you're ready."

Gideon looked in surprise from his wrist to Gavin's eyes to Gavin's wrist. Then he simply shrugged. Gavin didn't think it was a motion of defeat as much as just accepting his situation.

Gavin breezed them through the psych ward with his ID and PIN number, and they walked across the Medical Center's grounds to the path that ringed the MacMillan reservoir in silence. Gideon's head was turning in every direction and his nose was lifted in the air as he breathed in the crisp December breeze.

As it turned out, Gavin had a hard time keeping up with Gideon, the bruise he discovered on his chafed wrist after they returned to Gideon's room tangible evidence of that fact. For someone who'd been sedentary, Gideon was still in great shape; probably better shape than Gavin had ever been, and by the time they'd finally stopped to cool down, Gavin's sweats had been thoroughly soaked and his breathing labored while Gideon remained barely winded.

"That was awesome!" Gideon declared, stripping off his sweaty tops. There was a fire in his eyes that Gavin had only seen hints of before, and a brilliant smile to match.

Gavin nodded in agreement. He'd covered all the ground he could in their therapy sessions; Gideon was one of the most tough-minded people he'd ever met and, despite an inordinate fixation on all things food-related, he was completely well-adjusted.

Gideon had even submitted readily to hypnotherapy, but there, too, Gavin sensed that same troubling blankness. He couldn't in all good conscience, however, say that was enough to keep Gideon committed indefinitely.

Unfortunately, though, Jarvis disagreed, essentially tying Gavin's hands on the matter, though Gavin was pretty sure the decree had come from higher up. And after the day Grayson had met with him in his office, Gavin's only recourse was to make a weekly jog part of Gideon's schedule, and a way of subverting the power his superiors exercised over his management of Gideon's case.

***

Gavin hadn't expected the wheels to turn as quickly as they had. The morning after his second meeting with the _Post_ reporter, he arrived at his office to find Admiral Grayson seated in front of his desk, one leg crossed over the other so that his ankle rested upon his knee. He was drumming his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair.

Gavin closed the door behind him and stood at attention next to his desk.

"At ease, Sergeant."

"Yes, Sir," Gavin replied, taking his seat behind his desk. Admiral Grayson had skin as pale as paper and with a translucent quality, much like onionskin. Gavin had never met the man, but knew that he was almost always spoken about with high regard, even though his name was often associated with the term 'tight ass.' It was A term often associated with Gavin's name. Admiral Grayson was dearly loved by the men and women he led; he had a reputation for being as fair as he was strict, and his brilliant strategies for naval and marine collaborations had cut years off the second Iraq war. His negotiations with North Korea, once the new administration was in power, were expected to end with some kind of pact that was palatable to all interested parties. It was rumored that he'd butted heads with General Townsend on more than one occasion over allotments and treatments of troops; that alone was enough to elevate his stature in Gavin's eyes.

"I'm not going to waste your time or mine on pleasantries," the Admiral began. "I received a call yesterday from an old friend of mine, passing your name along to me."

"Yes, I--"

Grayson raised his hand to stop Gavin from finishing his sentence. "The matter has been of very much interest to the President-elect, and she wanted me to assure you that appropriate steps have been taken to ensure the security of all parties involved." He stood up and saluted Gavin. Gavin scrambled to his feet.

"That's it?" he blurted, bewildered. He felt as if the carpet had been yanked out from under him. He'd find that god-damned reporter and this time, _this time_ he would put the bullet between his eyes.

The Admiral appraised him coolly. "I can assure you that appropriate steps have been taken to ensure the security of all parties involved."

"How do you know that?"

"That's classified information, Sergeant."

"What the hell kind of an answer is that? Did you even look--"

The Admiral strode forward until his thighs were pressed against Gavin's desk. "The matter is no longer of your concern."

"I have a patient that's been brain--"

"If you complete your statement, you will be charged with insubordination. Think about what would happen to your patients--to one in particular--if that were to happen. Choose your next words carefully."

Gavin snapped his jaw shut and took a deep breath. "Request permission to speak, Sir."

"Permission granted."

"What if something changes?"

"You are to notify my office immediately."

"And the other--"

"He's being watched. Your only job here is what it always was. Take care of your patient."

Gavin breathed a sigh of relief. Gideon was still safe, and Campbell Stevens was now accounted for. "If something changes with the other one, you'll let me know?"

"Yes, consider the lines of communication open both ways.

"Do we understand each other, Sergeant Stewart?" Grayson reached into his pocket and withdrew his business card. He picked up a pen from Gavin's desk and scribbled something on the back, then placed both items on the desk. He turned abruptly to leave, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob.

"The President-elect would like to extend her heartfelt gratitude for the patriotic work that you have done. She asked me to relate to you that upon her inauguration, your name will be recommended for a promotion."

Before Gavin could respond, the Admiral had closed the door behind him, leaving Gavin alone in his office. He sat down heavily in his chair and stared at the card Grayson had left. The elegant writing on the back displayed the number to an obviously private line, punctuated by the abbreviation '24/7'.

***

He'd been a fool to let his guard down. An idiot. A moron. He'd been lulled into complacency, conned by Gideon's sunny disposition, his _gratefulness_; it had all been part of the ruse. He should have been on his guard. It was the day before the inauguration, for fuck's sake. At the back of his head, he'd known something would happen--only he'd been expecting it tomorrow.

He'd thought he had a handle on the kid, but he'd fallen into his trap, and now, unless he could intercept Gideon, all hell was about to break loose.

When Gideon hit him with the butt end of his own gun, the last thing Gavin remembered was him saying: _I'm sorry Gavin, there's something that_ I need to do. You can't help me with this. He felt the tender egg where the handle had met his skull. The hit had been expertly executed; it was one thing he could be grateful for, even though his head was pounding.

He reached for his ID, unsurprised to find it missing. Gideon had taken it to free himself. Of course he'd watched Gavin punch his code in countless times; he must have figured it out pretty quickly.

Gavin took out his wallet and found his spare. He knew he only had a few hours at best to get Gideon back before he'd be missed and an alarm would be raised. He walked back to his office quickly--as fast as his wobbly legs would take him--each step bringing more and more clarity.

In a way, Gavin was relieved; the months of waiting had done nothing except make him more irritable than usual. And there was satisfaction in knowing that his hunch had been right. But now, as always had been, his job was to get to Gideon before he carried out whatever he'd been programmed to do.

Gavin had spent weeks looking for the trigger, trying to figure what would set Gideon off. In the end, it had been something so simple--if he hadn't been fooled by it, he could have appreciated it.

He found his spare weapon in his locked file cabinet, then picked up the phone and dialed Grayson's number.

As soon as he heard the Admiral's voice, Gavin spoke.

"There's been a change." _A big fucking change._

"We know. The subject has been spotted traveling South on North Capitol Street, Northwest."

"_Fuck_." Gavin glanced around his small office, eyes scanning the desk.

"We're going to let him arrive. We've a sharp-shooter within range."

"NO!" The mail had been delivered; on top of the pile was a FedEx envelope. There was something about the handwriting that caught Gavin's eye. It was the childish scrawl, the return address, West Virginia.

"Is the subject armed?"

Gavin ripped the pull-tab on the envelope and shook its contents onto the desk. It was a photograph of three young Marines. It looked like they were on leave; their uniforms had that slept-in look that wasn't uncommon when someone was given a weekend off. As Gavin recognized the figures, he froze in stunned silence.

"Sergeant, answer me! Is the subject armed?!?"

Nathan Townsend smiled shyly into the camera, his arms thrown over the shoulders of his comrades. On his left, Campbell Stevens presented a profile as he leaned forward and looked across to the other figure--Gideon Smith. Gideon had his head thrown back in a full belly laugh, one arm thrown carelessly across his torso. The photo had a time-stamp on it. The date matched the one Gideon claimed was the day he had murdered Nathan. Gavin turned the photo over. On the reverse was written "1.20 -- Lincoln Memorial, Washington, DC."

"_Sergeant!_" Grayson's voice was exasperated.

Gavin stared hard at the image. Why had Campbell waited to send it? Slowly the pieces began to fall into place. The inauguration.

"Sir," he breathed into the receiver. "He's not the target. Kassandra Bouchonville is."

There was dead silence on the other end. "How do you know this?" the Admiral finally asked after what seemed an eternity. "She's not even in DC."

"But she will be tomorrow."

"Do you have proof?"

I think--I do!" he amended.

"Just get to the Rayburn Building then. As quickly as possible, Sergeant."

"_Gideon's_ not the assassin," he muttered into the receiver, then barked louder, "I'm on my way!" before slamming it down. The phone was ringing before he closed his office door.

All vestiges of his headache were forgotten as Gavin hit the pavement. He was grateful that he'd been running with Gideon; it was going to come in handy for the three miles and change he would need to sprint if he had any chance of catching up with the kid before he arrived in harm's way. Gavin had no idea how long he'd been out, but from the phone call, he guessed that he hadn't lost that much time. Of course, if Gideon were running too, he might be too late.

A cab was out of the question; traffic was crawling, the city was packed with people arriving for the celebration.

Gavin shoved the photo into the inside pocket of his uniform. His cell vibrated in his pants' pocket, but he ignored it as he raced toward North Capitol Street. His dress shoes were far from optimal, but he'd worry about blisters later.

He had to get there on time. Something very wrong was going to happen if he didn't. It still could, even if Gavin made it on time, but he was Gideon's only chance. If the sniper took Gideon down, all the evidence that Gavin had wouldn't matter.

He had the Capitol in sight when he heard the first emergency sirens. Gavin's lungs were burning, but the convergence of police cars wheeling the wrong way around the rear spurred a new burst of speed. He cut across in front of the majestic building and, as he came over the rise of the lawn in front of Independence Avenue, he stopped short. The street was filled with all manner of emergency vehicles. He pulled out his phone, which had been vibrating non-stop.

"We see you. You're cleared to enter the building."

"Is he alive?" Gavin wheezed.

"Go directly to room 2315, it's the office of the Congressman-elect."

Gavin breezed past the police, half-expecting a bullet in his back, but Grayson was true to his word; they cast a wide path before him, herding onlookers and press behind hastily-erected barricades.

The building was deathly quiet. No one was in the lobby or the halls or the stairs. He climbed them two at a time, stopping briefly at the first landing to catch his breath--sweat was pouring off him--before propelling himself up the final set. Fortunately, he was in the right wing of the building--the signage confirmed it. He turned left out of the stairwell, then made a quick right. The interior of the building was nondescript, unbefitting of the place that held the working offices of most of Congress.

The hallway was packed with police in bulletproof vests and S.W.A.T. officers in flak jackets; someone shoved a vest at Gavin as he strode past but he ignored it. Admiral Grayson stood just outside an open doorway, his head turning to glance in every few seconds. Gavin schooled his breath as best he could and made his way down the hall, past the armed forces, all who seemed poised for action at the drop of a hat. Or the report of a gun. _His_, more than likely--the one Gideon had made off with. Every noise he made was amplified in the unnatural silence that surrounded him.

He stepped past Grayson and into the office without being challenged. There Gideon was, standing an arm's-length from Nathan. Gavin was sure of the distance because between Gideon and Nathan was his arm, the barrel of a snub-nosed pistol kissing Gideon's forehead. Gideon's hand held Nathan's outstretched wrist in a steady grip.

Behind Nathan's shoulder was his father, General Townsend, whispering to him.

Gideon faced his would-be executioner fearlessly, and all the anger that Gavin had harbored against him for his outrageous escape withered away.

"Nathan, it doesn't have to end this way," Gideon said softly.

"Don't listen to him, Son. He was sent to kill you. Isn't that right?" The General looked at Gavin.

"That's a lie," Gideon countered. "I remembered, Nathan. I remembered everything. They turned us into killers. They made us kill."

"You've never met this boy, Nathan. He's crazy. Of course you were taught to kill, Nathan, you were a Marine. He'll kill you if you give him the chance."

Nathan continued to stare hard at Gideon. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.

Gideon took a deep breath. "Corporal Townsend. As your former squad-leader, I order you to put down your weapon." Gavin walked over and stood behind Gideon.

"I have something that could help you." he said quietly to Gideon's still form. He moved slowly and purposefully, withdrawing the photograph from his pocket. "It's a picture--of you, Campbell and Nathan."

"In Frankfurt." Gideon's head nodded, barely perceptibly. "Show it to him, please." Gavin turned the image around and held it next to Gideon's cheek. He glanced up at Lee Townsend's face; it had turned ashen.

Nathan's eyes glanced at the photo, then back to Gideon. Gavin watched as recognition dawned on Nathan's face. The gun shook violently, and Nathan wrested his wrist from Gideon's grip. He swung the weapon in a graceful arc until the barrel was pressed against his own temple.

"NATHAN, NO!" The cry came in stereo as both Gideon and Lee Townsend shouted in unison. Gideon lunged for the gun, his inertia toppling Nathan.

A shot rang out and the window behind Nathan's desk shattered. Gavin's heart stopped. On the floor in front of him, Gideon had regained control of the gun and was cradling Nathan to his chest. Gavin's eyes traveled up to see Lee Townsend clutching his shoulder, a gun swinging uselessly at the end of his hand.

"Drop your weapon, General." Grayson's voice cut the silence.

"You saw what he tried to do! I was going to protect my boy!" he protested.

Grayson cocked his weapon. Townsend's pistol clattered to the floor.

"Sergeant, retrieve that weapon and hand me the photograph," Grayson ordered. Gavin stepped around Gideon, who was now sitting up and had pulled Nathan into his lap.

"What's wrong with him, Gavin?" he cried out. Gavin walked the weapon and the picture back to Grayson, who took them distractedly, mouth pressed to a two-way radio. The room was soon abuzz with officers--someone stepped behind Lee Townsend and pulled his wrists together. Beyond the doorway, the building was coming to life. An ambulance siren wailed, and Gavin heard the clatter of gurney wheels on the marble floor of the hallway.

He crouched beside Gideon. He didn't appear to be injured, nor did Nathan, although Nathan was certainly catatonic. Gavin took his gun from Gideon's unresisting hold and re-sheathed it in his shoulder holster.

"I think it's the shock," Gavin observed, trying to reassure Gideon.

Two EMT workers pushed through the mass of uniforms that milled about. Neither paid attention to the General, even though blood oozed from his shoulder onto his military dress jacket. Instead they maneuvered the stretcher to Nathan's side, and lifted him from Gideon's grasp. Gavin helped Gideon to his feet and led him to the couch, where they both sat down.

For the moment, Gavin was content to let the activity swirl around him, his mind was busy trying to piece together what had happened.

Someone approached them--a military aide by her uniform. "Admiral Grayson asks that you both wait here." Her sleek, black hair was pulled into a severe bun; her ample breasts strained the buttons of her jacket. Gavin caught Gideon ogling and nudged his foot. It wasn't polite.

"Are we free to leave?" Gavin asked. The woman nodded.

"He wants to debrief you himself," she said, turning when Lee Townsend's voice thundered.

"You can't arrest me! I'm protected by the President of the United States of America!"

Grayson strode over to Townsend, his back to Gavin and Gideon. Gavin couldn't hear what the Admiral was saying, but whatever it was, it wasn't appeasing Townsend in the least. He continued to rail on, threatening all manner of punishment, right up to treason. Grayson raised his voice, even as he motioned for the officer to unlock the cuffs around the General's wrists. Another EMT stood by, waiting to minister to him.

"Enjoy the power you have while it lasts, General. Tomorrow begins a new era."

_Literally,_ Gavin thought. He rubbed the back of his head and winced. He shut his eyes against the pain and gritted his teeth. That was going to hurt for a while.

"How's your head?" Gideon asked.

"Just fucking great," Gavin snapped. He was surprised when he opened his eye to Gideon's concerned stare.

There was a loud ripping sound as the technician hurriedly opened up Lee Townsend's jacket to inspect the General's wound. Gavin's eyes widened as a bulletproof vest was revealed. He'd been prepared for something, unless Gavin never got the memo that bulletproof vests were _de rigeur_ for high-ranking officers.

"I di'n't want to hurt ya, but it was better this way."

"Better that you were nearly killed? Better, how?"

"I had ta get through to Nathan before he did something..." Gideon's voice trailed off.

"You were never brain-washed," Gavin said bitterly. He had been played right from the beginning.

"No!" Gideon protested. "What I told ya--I _did_ believe that I killed him."

"You didn't trust me."

"I didn't want you hurt. When I remembered...Gavin, _you_ helped. You took me off the drugs. You tried to make me see, an' when I remembered, I was afraid if I told you, you'd try to fix everything and you'd get hurt."

Gavin rubbed his forehead.

"He was also under orders not to speak." Grayson now stood in front of them. "When your name was passed on to me by Hayden Thornton of the _Post_, I visited Gideon. The story was so fantastic, I didn't want to believe it."

"I was his psychiatrist. He deceived me," Gavin gritted out. He stood to leave, but Grayson blocked his way. He blinked. How had Grayson figured out who it was?

"This isn't something that was personal, and it's something that's far from over." Grayson's voice foretold trouble for Gavin if he didn't toe the line. "Come outside with me."

Gavin followed the Admiral until they were away from the crowd, out of earshot, but they could still see the comings and goings.

"We don't know how deep the conspiracy is, whether or not there are other 'sleepers' set to converge on the Capitol tomorrow."

"That's not my concern."

"No, but I do owe you an explanation, and your patient is." Grayson looked out beyond the window at the far end of the hall. "There was a secret program--"

"That much I got."

"It was ordered by the General himself. None of this was cleared through congress, of course."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? The military as a whole has no use for politicians." Gavin's head was beginning to throb again.

"There are good men and women in every calling, Sergeant."

Gavin snorted. "Yeah, and they usually end up dead."

"This time, the good guys will win."

"I've always been of the mind that good depended on which side you were on."

"I'm not trying to win you over, nor do I care to change your mind, Sergeant." There was a threatening edge in the Admiral's voice.

"But you're letting General Townsend go, Sir."

"We can speak frankly, you and I." A humorless smile pulled at the Admiral's lips. "It's what's called 'giving him enough rope.' The new administration is going to bring this matter to the attention of Congress. There will be hearings, of that you can be certain."

"Just like Iran-Contra."

"General Townsend is no Oliver North."

"But Nathan can be every bit as compelling."

"Nathan needs de-programming. He won't be available to begin serving congress until the hearings are well under way. He's being admitted to the VA Medical Center's psychiatric ward, as is Campbell Stevens."

"Jarvis!"

"Has been very helpful, and admires the work you've done with Corporal Smith. I believe he called it 'inspired.'"

Gavin nearly howled with laughter. "That's not a word I'd never use in describing Commander Jarvis."

Nor would Jarvis, Gavin knew. Jarvis was playing at something.

"Be that as it may, he's been integral to our investigation."

Or more likely, he'd played both ends against the middle and managed to keep his little fiefdom. Jarvis must have fed Gideon's name to Grayson, and not because he was intimidated.

"I need to get back to the office, and begin damage control," the Admiral stated, effectively ending their conversation. Gavin walked with him in silence until they'd arrived back at Nathan's office. Gideon hadn't moved from the couch even though the room had been cleared of everyone else accept federal investigators. Grayson turned to Gavin and held out a piece of paper, on which was scrawled an address. "A helicopter will arrive there within the hour. Figure out where you want to go."

"What about--"

"Corporal Gideon Smith has been released from the Medical Center and remanded to your care. You're entitled to a vacation. It starts tomorrow. Wherever you decide to go, is up to you."

"I don't--" Gavin closed his mouth before he could finish his argument. They were being protected from whatever fallout Grayson expected during the government turnover. "What is this place?" He held up the piece of paper.

"A safe house. Someone trustworthy. Someone whom I owe a favor." He turned his attention to Gideon. "Corporal Smith, you're free to tell your story." Gavin glanced at the address; it jogged his memory. He'd looked it up when he'd decided to reach out the first time.

"I'm not taking him there."

"You have no choice. It's an order, as is both of you getting on that 'copter."

"What about my duty to my patient?"

"'S okay Gavin, I want to talk."

Gavin frowned. "'Meet the new boss, same as the old boss,'" he quoted.

"If you believed that, you never would have pushed this far." Grayson observed. "What you did--"

"What I did was what any decent human being would do," Gavin retorted. His thoughts drifted for a fraction of a second and he wondered what the child who bore his name was doing at that exact moment. Calculating the time difference, probably saying his evening prayers.

"What you did would have made your father proud," Grayson replied.

Gavin's frown deepened. For all he knew about his father's profession, Konrad had been a mid-level g-man. Half his time he spent working in the field; he'd much preferred it to his office in the North Tower despite the panoramic view of the lower harbor and the Statue of Liberty. Now he realized that his father might have been something more. It was certainly odd that people he didn't really know knew Konrad. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what that was all about, though.

"Sir, the car is ready. Service entrance to the building." The buxom aide was back.

"Please escort Sergeant Stewart and Corporal Smith to the vehicle and make sure they embark safely."

* * *

The apartment was well-appointed, and had a stunning view of the Potomac. Gavin paced the floor in front of the windows, chain-smoking, the odd brunet--Harlan Chase--who was Justin's roommate--intercepting him sporadically with an ashtray.

When they'd arrived, the redhead's eyes had widened like a kid's at Christmas, and he'd ushered Gideon into the dining room.

Gavin listened half-heartedly, glancing into the room each pass as he paced. Gideon was exhausted. His usual tan complexion was pale and drawn, but he was as animated as ever. Justin had placed a micro-cassette on the table between them, but he was still taking notes.

"Do you know where you're going to go?" Harlan intruded upon his ruminations.

Gavin shrugged his shoulders and stubbed out his cigarette in the proffered ashtray. "Haven't given it much thought." Or what he would do for clothes and sundries, as all he and Gideon had were the clothes on their backs.

The year before Konrad died, they'd vacationed in Belize. They'd spent Christmas week snorkeling along the reef. Konrad had hired a local guide with a boat who'd ferried them from the public dock on Ambergris Caye to quite a few of the uninhabited isles with pristine, sandy beaches that Gavin had beach-combed for hours while Konrad swam. It had been paradise, and it had been the last vacation Gavin had ever taken.

He stopped his pacing and looked at Gideon's earnest face. Gideon would probably love it there, walking barefoot along the sand-covered main street.

Not that he cared what the kid wanted. Gavin crossed his arms over his chest.

"Maybe somewhere south, along the Gulf." Before Harlan could reply, the doorbell rang. Gavin reached for his gun as Harlan peered through the peephole.

"It's Hayden Thornton--our editor." Gavin left his hand on the weapon as Harlan ushered in a tall, handsome guy who had a cell cradled against his ear.

"The helicopter is on the roof," the newcomer reported.

"Time's up already?" Justin called out from the dining room.

Hayden slipped the phone into the pocket of his leather coat.

Gideon was already by Gavin's side. "I have your number! I'll call you if I remember anything else," he promised as Gavin urged him out the door.

* * *

Since that night at Nirvana, the relationship between Harlan, Justin and Hayden had returned to one of professionalism; they'd never interacted again at the club, even though they'd run into each other on more than one occasion. Hayden had seemed to get that what they'd done was not about to become a regular thing, and had slipped effortlessly back into his role as their editor.

So Justin was surprised when Hayden suggested that they head out for a round. He was sure that he'd have wanted the story filed so they could lead with it before all the news turned to the inauguration. Besides, it would serve as a great tie-in to the historic coverage.

"I was told that we need to sit on the story."

"WHAT?!?" Justin blurted out. He'd worked this story for so long; it was no longer about an award, it was the satisfaction of delivering the goods.

Hayden leveled a gaze at him. "All the news outlets are being shut down--it's an ongoing investigation. If we go public...lives are at stake. There's no telling how many more Gideons or Nathans are out there."

"What's the official line?" Harlan asked, returning from the kitchen with an empty ashtray.

"A bomb scare."

Justin rolled his eyes. They would print the lie, and people would just believe it. Because it was easy to believe the lies the media fed them. He felt a pit forming in his stomach.

"This isn't why I became a reporter," he said sourly.

"And you think I feel good about this?" Hayden asked pointedly.

"If we had any balls--"

"Do you think it would be better to print what we have, even if it means destabilizing the government before the new administration is in place?

"It will all come out in due time, Justin, and we'll still get the story first."

Justin sighed and ran his hands through his hair in his exasperation. "So we have to go in and write up that bullshit?"

Hayden shook his head. "Stories have already been filed. Tomorrow you're set to cover the inauguration."

It was an olive branch. Justin turned to Harlan, who only shrugged and walked over to the dry bar. He poured out three scotches.

"What's the real truth, Hayden, or aren't you at liberty to tell?"

Hayden threaded his fingers through his hair and then shook his head. "I don't think they know that yet, but the atmosphere of the country--we read and report about it all the time--people are terrified the new Administration won't take a strong enough stance against terrorism, won't protect America's interests."

Harlan grimaced. "Never underestimate the collective stupidity of mob mentality."

"And never underestimate what those who are in power will stoop to, to keep that power," Hayden added.

Harlan brought a tumbler to Justin, then handed one to Hayden.

"What's this for?" Hayden asked.

"It's a little tradition Justin and I have," Harlan said, walking back to collect his. "We always have a drink when the paper goes to bed with a big story."

Justin raised his glass in a mock-toast and then took a healthy swig.

"Another thing we do, especially when it's been a particularly grueling day, is head out to the club to leave out troubles behind for a while." Harlan gave Justin that meaningful look, and Justin nodded his head. "So...we'd love to go to Nirvana, that is, if you're feeling up to it."

~FIN~


End file.
